Above the Beaten Path

Chapter 4: Oolong and Mayerthorpe

8/8/2015

We crisscrossed Canada several times over the span of a few years in C-GVLD. So, of the endless country airports in Canada, I’ve touched down on quite a few. One in particular, though not much different than the rest, is especially close to my heart - the one in Mayerthorpe, Alberta.

Mayerthorpe is a small town 60 miles northwest of Edmonton surrounded by rolling blue-green and sunflower-yellow fields, checkerboard roads, pastures dotted with black cattle, isolated farm houses, muskeg, coyotes, a few oil rigs, and the Conradi hobby farm, a three-quarter section of land bought by Ulrike’s parents in the 1970s. Any trip to Edmonton almost always included a visit to the farm.

Why go there, people ask, to this spot in the middle of nowhere? A silly question for those who know and love the place and can easily rattle off a list of reasons. For me the farm at Mayerthorpe came to epitomize “getting away from it all.” In the late 1990s, during my time as chief executive officer of Standard Chartered Bank in Thailand, if I was having a bad day, my secretary Siriporn, a diminutive Thai lady, would sympathetically say, “I know, Khun (Mr.) Dru, you want to be in Mayerthorpe today. Let me bring you some good Oolong tea - it’s the next best thing to Mayerthorpe.” That pretty much says it all.

To get to the farm we’d drive with Ulrike’s mother Karin - “Mutti” to many of us - in her large Chrysler station wagon. It was packed with everything we would need for a few days’ stay: prepared meals, lots of wine and beer, steaks and cakes, and dark brown bread, the darkest baked by her. Sliced thinly and eaten with aged cheddar or Stilton, this bread was the best. We also brought copious amounts of water in large plastic containers because the well water, though drinkable, was murky light-brown in color and tasted swampy. Through the back window you could see a badminton racket or two poking out next to the game of Risk wedged between freshly laundered towels.

On the way we’d stop at Jack’s for ice cream cones or burgers. Jack’s wasn’t just a convenient pit stop on the way. It was a confection of its own, a small shack covered in chocolate-colored stucco, window frames a delicious yellow-orange. Ulrike’s father loved ice cream and was always the first to finish his cone, turning then “for a taste” to the slower eater next to him, who to salvage his cone ate faster and faster.

Finally, after driving one and a half hours, the last few miles along gravel roads, we were there. As we drove up the last stretch, a narrow lane, the house came into view. It was a lovely place with dormer windows and a broad wrap-around verandah. Grand views on all sides. Painted a pale sage green, it blended beautifully with the stands of poplars surrounding it. At the rear of the house, behind an electrified barbed-wire fence that separated a large lawn from meadows and fields, curious cows lined up to greet us. I often thought, gazing at that stretch of open land, that it would make a perfect landing strip.

After we parked, everyone quickly dispersed, the kids heading over to the old, abandoned two-story farm house just off to the side. It dated from the pre- electricity and running water era. A cast-iron wood stove still stood in the living room with its warped floor and crooked windows framed by dusty drapes. At the time the family bought the farm and this was the only house, petroleum lamps lit the way to the bunk beds in the one bedroom and to the iron bedsteads on the floor above. Mice now made their homes in the lumpy mattresses. A couple of trunks stashed here and there in dark corners still protected flotsam, papers, toys, old clothes and books. The kids loved this spooky, ramshackle place. It was their own.

With each passing year this original house leaned a little more precariously, the wood siding turned a deeper brown, smelled more richly of loam, and the moss on its roof extended its territory. Each year we wondered how much longer the house would remain standing. Next time we come, will it have collapsed and joined the stack of chopped-up poplars on the wood pile, ready for the fireplace and the cold nights of winter? When that time comes it won’t just be wood we’ll be burning, but memories.

The new, also two-storied, farmhouse stands just a little ways away from its crumbling sibling. Built in the early 1980s, it can, in a squeeze, accommodate up to twenty people. It has electricity, indoor plumbing and toilets – thankfully no more outhouse - marked improvements from the old place. There is still deliberately no TV and for many years there wasn’t even a phone. The outside world was disconnected; visitors when they came knew they were leaving a layer of life elsewhere. However, since the lack of a phone did cause mix-ups and problems, necessitating trips to the neighbor’s several miles away for urgent calls, that concession was eventually made. Otherwise the farm truly was a Shangri-La.

Immediately on arrival we’d stash our things in the bedrooms and help Mutti pack away the groceries. She would then make a quick check as to any damage done since the last time she was here, her bright blue eyes scanning her domain - are the roses still blooming, are the potatoes coming up, did those perennials survive the winter? Inside the house, if there was mouse dirt on the floors, she’d sweep that up. There rarely was much because she regularly went to the farm and tidied, repaired, and cleaned so that when the rest of us arrived it was inviting and cozy. A real labor of love.

After a quick meal we’d go for a long walk, over that barbed wire, across the fields, through cow pastures, avoiding still steaming cow patties, to a narrow winding little river. On hot days it was great for a swim and even better if you knew where the deep swimming holes were. The soft riverbanks were largely clay, which inspired dribbled sand castle contests and mud wrestling. The budding artists in the family, mostly 5 to 13 year olds, lugged large chunks of this clay, slippery and dripping back to the farmhouse. There, sitting in a circle on the lawn, they squeezed, pinched and molded it into various objects, mostly heads. Nixe, with her creative flair, would suggest a nose job here, a chin tuck there, until everyone was satisfied. If they survived the drying process, these heads, small, shriveled but expressive, would be put on display like so many hunting trophies on the living room fireplace mantle.

On summer evenings, a short distance from the house, Julian with cousins Ben and Stephanie, launched massive fires in the fire pit, a rectangle bordered by thick logs reaching 20 feet in length, whose proportions, they figured, justified fires ten feet high. As the air cooled and the sun went down in brilliant reds we all gravitated to the warmth and crackling of the flames and barbecued wieners and marshmallows. The delicious smells of slightly burned meat and melting sugar made a lager or a glass of Gewuerztraminer irresistible.

Camp memories stirred. Someone burst out with the familiar bouncy tune “She’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes.... She’ll be wearing pink pajamas when she comes.... She’ll be riding six white horses when she comes....” For once, the coyotes in the dark woods on the horizon were rendered silent. Then, after a deep breath, we all slid into the Beatles’ “Hey, Jude.” Other songs followed, me providing that low background hum. As the evening deepened and people became silhouettes, there was always someone who, having swallowed inhibition with his beer, growled out a curdling rendition of Louis Armstrong’s “Mack the Knife” or, if the singer was German, “Makki Messer.” With a bright moon in the sky, the beautiful old German family favorite “Der Mond ist aufgegangen” (“The moon has risen”) would inevitably be sung and when the fire was dying down and our eyes glazed over, the canon “Oh wie wohl ist mir am Abend” (“Oh how great I feel in the evening”) made our beds seem an enticing breath away. The kids didn’t have far to go, climbing up into the roomy tree house right next to the fire pit, a penthouse with view that they had helped build.

I loved the farm especially in winter. Alberta’s ample, crunchy dry snow converted the area into a cross-country skiing heaven, with trails leading down to and along the endlessly looping frozen river and a clear sun shining all day in a bright blue sky. But I gladly left that to others. I, instead, sat on the verandah dressed in a thick parka, a good book in my hand, maybe a tea, and enjoyed the utter quiet, the sparkling snow, and that wonderful nip in the air.

For all these reasons the farm had a soft spot in my heart, and I knew that there would come a day I would fly there in the Cessna. In the summer of 1989 I stamped that flight into our plans, an add-on to a flight from Toronto to Edmonton.

When flying over such a huge stretch of country - just under 2,000 miles - you expect to encounter all kinds of weather, especially in summer. What we weren’t prepared for was massive forest fires. Actually we shouldn’t have been surprised. Fires that destroy thousands of acres of forest are not uncommon in dry hot summers. Approaching the Lake of the Woods area of Manitoba, we saw to our amazement what looked like Dante’s inferno, a fire so intense, so extensive its towering, billowing clouds of smoke blackened the sky from horizon to horizon.

I knew those clouds could be as dangerous as CBs, cumulonimbus clouds that build during thunderstorms. Such clouds can go extremely high and with hurricane-force winds churning up and down within them they can easily tear a small plane apart. Nope, we weren’t going anywhere near there. I made a quick 90-degree turn and headed south about 50 miles to the U.S., skimming along the border until we were safely beyond that conflagration. The rest of the flight, except for a squall here and there, was uneventful.

A few days after landing in Edmonton, it was off to Mayerthorpe. Though very tempting, I had decided against landing on the meadow behind the farm as it had potentially dangerous bumps and holes. Landing there would also set the cows stampeding making them lose precious pounds to the great displeasure of their owners. Fortunately, Mayerthorpe had an actual airport situated just across the main highway from the town. It was uncontrolled and little more than a good-sized asphalt strip. But that would be more than sufficient.

Ulrike’s nephew Jens was going to join me. He’d never flown in a Cessna before. On the day of the flight the weather briefing called for a fair weather day, sunshine but with moderate thermals that typically build in the afternoon causing mildly bumpy conditions. Though not ideal conditions for a first flight, I figured it wouldn’t be too bad and the flight was short, just two-thirds of an hour. At the coffee shop in the airport terminal I suggested to Jens that if he had not eaten, he might wish to grab a bite but not to overeat in case the flight proved to be bumpier than envisaged. While I filed the flight plan, Jens, a six-foot, hungry young man, used the moment to have some fries and a coke, wolfing down the last of the meal when he saw me returning. We headed off to the plane.

As soon as we were strapped into our seats ready for takeoff, I briefed Jens about the controls and panel gauges and instruments, offering to let him handle the controls once we had departed. Except for the expected thermal activity, it was a wonderful flying day. Jens got a feeling of the controls en route, really excited as he realized that controlling the aircraft in flight was not all that difficult and in fact quite a pleasant experience. He kept asking questions about how long it would take to get a license, the cost of it, and on and on. I might have a convert on my hands I thought to myself, feeling quite elated at that prospect. He might in turn help kindle interest in our three children, who were quite a few years younger.

As we got close to the airstrip at Mayerthorpe I decided to do a couple of low, slow passes over the farmhouse to announce our arrival to those who were already there, hoping for a car pickup. As we approached, rocking our wings and waving, more than a dozen family members gathered on the lawn at the rear of the house and cheerfully waved back. Then I climbed back up again and continued on for a landing at the Mayerthorpe municipal airstrip.

On the base leg, unexpectedly, I saw Jens opening his side window. I figured he probably needed some fresh air. It was a hot day and in slow flight just before touchdown the air vents become rather ineffective. I glanced over again to ensure he was all right. He looked fine. The very next moment, however, he stuck his head outside and heaved - the wrong maneuver, unfortunately, because the wind blew virtually everything back inside. Most of Jens’s recent meal landed on the back seat and the baggage area. As luck would have it, only the airsickness bags in the pockets behind our seats were spared.

Moments later I touched down and taxied over to what looked like a shack, but was actually the terminal building. No one was inside. Sparse furnishings included a folding table and a few folding chairs. Fortuitously there was also an ancient kettle on a counter, and, yes, a washroom. We filled the kettle with water and managed to give the plane a cursory cleaning. A pay phone on the outside wall allowed us to call the farmhouse to ensure we would get a pickup ride. We decided to return later with better equipment, mops, detergent, brushes and towels. Jens, though, insisted on returning alone and in the end cleaned and restored the plane to a better condition than before. Six months later, while getting the rugs professionally cleaned, what did I find behind the baggage wall? A sole French-fry, fully intact.

As we waited for the car, I glanced around at the airstrip, at our lone airplane tied down outside the hut. There was not a soul in sight, not a sound. Nothing but prairie peace and tranquility and gently rolling farmland as far as the eye could see. This was the Mayerthorpe I would frequently come to yearn for later during my frantically paced years of work. Here it was in its fullness, a wide-open no fuss no muss environment, where there was time for family and friends, and a quiet corner for myself. I felt immensely grateful. A few days later I rose up again into the prairie sky to return to Edmonton. As I climbed higher and higher, the farm, the fields and roads, the whole solid world beneath me shrank and the sky expanded until I was drenched in blue, nothing but blue, brilliant, clear and endless.

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Chapter 3: By the seat of our pants

8/6/2015

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While naivete may have made me “brave” on occasion, flying is really all about experience. Between 1981 and 1988 through encounters with unexpected weather, difficult or unusual runways, tricky terrain, time pressure, leery passengers, and frequently a combination of these, I gained that experience. I learned about the capabilities of the plane, how to handle emergencies, my own fears and limits, and in the process became more confident of my own skills.

One dangerous phenomenon I never did become comfortable facing was icing. I first encountered icing in the spring of 1981. I had begun instrument flight training with Alan Evans, an instructor who was building up his time for his airline transport license. In April of that year, with winter almost over, Al suggested, “Why don’t we do a real IFR flight to Montreal? It’s the best way to learn.” He continued, “The weather at this time of year presents a unique opportunity. We won’t get thunderstorms yet and it’s no longer too cold. We can expect some cloud layers, but that should be fun. You can get some real cloud time.” That sounded like a wonderful idea.

We headed for Saint-Jean Airport on the outskirts of Montreal. The forecast called for overcast skies with cloud layers up to 12,000 feet and light to moderate icing in cloud in the upper levels. We decided to fly between layers and lower down. The first hour went fine. I got some excellent straight and level IFR time without the hood. (The IFR hood straps to the forehead and blocks the view outside the aircraft, allowing only the instrument panel to be seen. It trains pilots to fly by looking exclusively at the instruments, simulating flying in restricted or no visibility, as when flying in clouds.)

At 5,000 feet the cloud layers started to merge. Soon after entering cloud, I noticed a shiny translucent layer of ice on the wing struts and realized we were flying in icing conditions. Ice was gradually adhering to the strut surface. I had never experienced this before, but Al thankfully had. He understood my growing nervousness and advised “Concentrate on the flying. Leave the radio work to me.” But we continued to pick up more and more ice. Clearly uneasy now himself, Al requested a lower altitude of 4,000 feet hoping that the slightly higher temperature at that altitude would get us out of icing range. Technically, though, that altitude was inappropriate since a fundamental rule requires pilots to fly at odd thousand feet when going eastbound and even thousand westbound.

It was at least ten tense minutes before the center controller obliged and permitted us to descend. During this time our indicated airspeed had begun to drop even though the engine revolutions per minute (rpm) remained unchanged. With the same power, we were going slower. To avoid reaching stall speed, I progressively had to add more and more power until at one point I had the throttle all the way in. Even with full power, I only got 85 nautical miles per hour (knots) as opposed to a normal 100 knots. Here we were, 4,000 feet in the air, giving it all the power we had, and still the plane was slowing down.

I knew loss of power and even engine failure can occur when flying in clouds or precipitation at temperatures close to freezing because these conditions cause the carburetor intake to ice up in engines like mine. When the carburetor intake ices up, airflow into the engine is restricted, and when the engine does not receive adequate air it shuts down. To prevent such icing, I had the carburetor heat on constantly. Clearly, carburetor ice wasn’t the reason for our reduced speed: it was airframe icing.

I thought back on what I had learned. Accumulation of ice on the airframe can be a major weather hazard in aviation for many reasons. It destroys the lifting capability of the wing, increases drag which slows down the aircraft, and adds extra weight. As well, an iced-up propeller reduces thrust (forward motion). All of these factors render flight more difficult and in the worst circumstances can cause the aircraft to stall and/or become uncontrollable. More sophisticated aircraft, such as high-altitude airliners, are equipped with deicing equipment, but our little Cessna 172 did not come with that luxury.

We were obviously in quite some danger. Why wasn’t Al reacting, doing something, fast? I wanted to, but couldn’t; I wasn’t pilot-in-command. Trying to calm my worries, I reminded myself that Al was a highly experienced pilot, someone I could trust to gauge our situation more accurately than I could.

By now the ice on the struts and on the leading edges of the wings had grown to at least half an inch in thickness. Any moment now the plane could lose its lifting capability; our time was running out. Not only that. Our front windshield was covered by a solid sheet of ice. Forward visibility was zero. Here we were, flying at high speed with nothing but an opaque wall of white a few feet in front of our noses. It was claustrophobic, utterly disorienting. I couldn’t believe it. My skin began to tingle with a desperate need to scratch a hole in that ice. Visibility was no better to the side. Although those windows were ice free, all we could see was thick gray cloud. Meanwhile that layer of ice on the struts and wings was growing surely and steadily. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. When would it be too much? Worry escalated to panic. This was some IFR training; our lives were on the line.

Al suddenly interrupted, warning me to concentrate on the instruments. Those instructions thankfully broke the spell, brought me back to what I had to do, what I could deal with. Al asked Air Traffic Control (ATC) for permission to go even lower, to 3,000 feet. About five minutes later we were cleared to 3,000. Even that made not the slightest difference. Ice continued to accumulate. Worry again spiraled out of control. Why wasn’t Al requesting an immediate full descent clearance? We needed to get down, right down to the ground, and fast. That was our only salvation.

I began to grow suspicious. Was Al holding back longer than he should because he would have to admit flying into adverse and dangerous weather conditions instead of turning back? Was he afraid that such an error of judgment might prevent him from getting his airline transport rating? Or was I overreacting, beginning to panic uselessly because of my limited experience?

Minimum altitude restrictions exist when flying IFR and you need a good reason to break them. Well, we definitely had a good reason. Al could declare an emergency, which would force controllers to clear all traffic out of our way and give us first priority. Sure, Al would subsequently have to explain his actions and the reasons for the emergency, leading, potentially, to a thorough investigation by authorities. I knew that to avoid such repercussions pilots tend not to declare emergencies until they’re convinced beyond a shred of doubt they have no choice. Was this what was happening?

Suddenly rock-crunching sounds bombarded us. Massive vibrations shook the plane. I was stunned, terrified. Thoughts swirled. The propeller has cracked, pieces are breaking off causing the plane to fibrillate, the metal fuselage has ripped somewhere, something is tearing, breaking apart. My mind in free-fall, heart pounding with fear, I couldn’t grasp what was happening. It was good that Al was in control because I was momentarily beyond consciousness.

Al did finally get permission to come in for landing without declaring an emergency, and I landed us safely a short while later. Back on the ground, I could only marvel: all trace of ice had vanished. Al explained that the noise and vibrations were the result of ice melting and breaking off in chunks from the propeller and hurling against the plane. It was a terrifying experience that I never wanted to repeat. However, with temperatures in Canada frequently conducive to icing, it is unfortunately not always easy to avoid. Yet I vowed, if I ever found myself in such a situation again I would remain calm and ready to take corrective action.

Icing is only one of the risks you face when flying in Canada. A flight in 1987 in the dead of winter with temperatures down to -20º C brought me head to head with other unexpected problems.

Ulrike and I had decided to fly across Canada to Edmonton, Alberta, for a very special Baltic-German Christmas celebration with Ulrike’s large family, up to 18 people most of the time. Our children were coming, too. By now we had a second daughter, Anita, who was six, and a son, Julian, two. They were accompanying us in the Cessna; Tara, almost 15, had school exams and would arrive a little later by commercial plane. We were thrilled at the thought of flying that distance in winter. It actually made sense to us at the time, taking a treacherous flight in a little Cessna with small children.

Christmas in Ulrike’s family was celebrated on Christmas Eve. It followed the Lutheran traditions customary in the family’s original homeland Latvia. The family, like all Baltic Germans, had been forced to leave Latvia in 1939. Ulrike in fact was born in Poland while it was under German occupation toward the end of the Second World War. Her father, Dr. Gerhard Conradi, emigrated with the family to Canada in 1952, landing finally in Edmonton where he became a well-known and beloved pediatrician.

Edmonton, a mid-sized prairie city that straddles the North Saskatchewan River in central Alberta - “a sunny place, a good reason to stay,” my mother-in-law Karin always said - became the family’s permanent home. Of their five children, three remained and raised their families there, and so a visit always meant a lot of catching up. In fact, after meeting Ulrike, I’d taken a German course, a big plus not just on our honeymoon, but on occasions such as Christmas, because German was still spoken at home.

Christmas in Edmonton was rare for us and always special, and this time even more so because we would be flying there in the Cessna. Time, unfortunately, was limited since we had to be back in Toronto for work and school at the start of the New Year. The flight was long. I estimated at least nineteen hours of flying. Daylight hours at this time of year were short. We hoped to put in five to six hours of flying a day, which would get us there in three to four days, weather permitting and barring unforeseen problems. Naive optimists that we were, we did not expect any.

We were excited about the trip, and I prepared well. The evening before our scheduled departure date, I drove down to the main weather office at Toronto International to get a personalized weather briefing. The next day would be fine as long as we took the route south of Lake Superior through the States and then continued up toward Winnipeg, Manitoba. Cloud tops were forecasted for around 5,000 feet; temperatures would be colder than -15ºC, too cold for icing conditions in clouds.

We lifted off shortly after eight into a gray overcast, which always left me feeling uneasy in cold weather after my icing experience. With my eyes glued to the instruments, we climbed through the stuff as it gradually thinned out and grew wispier until, wham, we emerged into blue skies, fluffy cotton-ball clouds rapidly falling away below us. Ulrike and I looked around for our sunglasses.

It was a smooth flight to the Canadian Soo (Sault Ste. Marie). A quick update with the FSS (Flight Service Station) over the phone confirmed the weather would continue to be clear, but we ought to keep an eye on headwinds that could pick up as we traversed west. Since we did not have any GPS or DME (Distance Measuring Equipment) on board, I had to use VOR radials (Very high frequency Omni direction Range) to calculate our ground speed, a popular time-tested navigational system still in use. Sure enough, during a smooth flight into the approaching dusk, at 7,000 feet, our ground speed was no more than 85 knots versus a true airspeed of 105, indicating a reasonably stiff headwind.

By the time we got close to the south shore of Lake Superior at Ashland, about 70 miles from our destination of Duluth, Minnesota, night had fallen. On checking the fuel gauges I noticed that both were showing only about one-eighth full even though by my calculations I should have had at least 1.5 hours of fuel remaining, just under a quarter tank. I began to feel tense. Wanting to shorten the distance, I decided to scrap flying along the shoreline and to cut across the corner of the lake instead.

After a while it struck me. What was I doing? With fuel looking really low, I was flying in the dark in icy weather over a frozen lake. Duluth, just a line of blinking lights up ahead. It seemed close, but was it maybe just that tiny stretch between life and death not close enough? How could I have put us in this situation? Ulrike was sitting tight and quiet next to me, focusing as if by sheer force of will she could make that distance shrink. Unspoken between us hovered the frightening question: Was the ice below thick enough to support us if we had to make an emergency landing? Or would it break, a big black hole in all that white the only indicator of where we had been?

I swallowed hard, stared at the lights ahead, back at the shore receding behind us, at the lights again. They hardly seemed closer. We were barely moving in the strong headwinds. My calculations said we were ok, but those fuel gauges indicated otherwise. I promised myself, if we made it through, never again would I try something so stupid! Interminable minutes later, I was finally able to contact Duluth Approach Control - how sweet that deep voice - and request my descent. I blew Ulrike a kiss. We would make it.

After landing I checked the fuel. There was plenty left; my calculations had been correct. Those fuel gauges, simplistic instruments that use a needle to mark fuel quantity, had been misleading. How needlessly they had frightened us. Yet even knowing how imprecise they are, when that needle hovers over E, anxiety builds.

We actually got into Duluth just in the nick of time because early the next day about a foot of snow descended on the city, not unusual for this neck of the woods at the edge of the Great Lakes at that time of year. We made the best of it and walked into town, which was festive with pre-Christmas preparations. The kids had sleigh rides and conferred with Santa. In the evening all of us cozied up to a wood fireplace back in our hotel room.

We departed for Winnipeg the day after. Approaching the Lake of the Woods area, we flew over countless frozen lakes, their wind-blown snow patterns as endlessly varied as snowflakes; a total delight. The weather was mostly cloudy. Scattered snow flurries made me wonder about landing conditions at Winnipeg.

On the Winnipeg ATIS (Automatic Terminal Information Service) I heard that there was snow on the runway and that the James Brake Index was 0.8. This index is an indicator of expected braking effectiveness. 0.8 was not bad and would not pose a problem for a Cessna 172. Ironically, after landing safely, as I stepped out of the aircraft, I slipped and fell on a patch of ice.

After refueling and buying sandwiches, drinks and coffee, we departed for Regina, Saskatchewan, just under 300 miles away. At Regina, the outside temperature was a frigid -22ºC. After touching down and securing the plane for the night, we could hardly wait for a long soak in the hotel hot tub. Flying with the children was actually great fun and really easy. The steady drone of the engine put our little Anita fast asleep within minutes of takeoff, and Julian had building blocks to keep him busy.

The next morning at the airport it was even colder, -24ºC. I asked Ulrike to stay inside the terminal with the kids while I started and warmed up the aircraft. I followed my cold weather start-up check list. The engine sprang to life instantly, but, not being familiar with such extreme cold weather conditions, I didn’t wait long enough during my ground run-up to warm everything up sufficiently. When I pulled the carburetor heat knob out as part of my preflight checks, the carburetor cable snapped like an icicle and a whole foot and a half came out in my hand. As Ulrike approached the plane with Julian all bundled up in her arms and Anita running behind her, ready to climb aboard, I told her what had happened. We were dismayed because the repair could mean a lengthy delay if there was no one around who could fix it right away. How silly. Because of this one stupid error we could end up missing the Christmas festivities.

At the repairs hangar a few hundred yards away, we got a pre-Christmas present. The chief engineer, a tall, strapping African from Eritrea, was there and ready to help, offering to pull us into the hangar and deal with the carburetor heat cable right away. This was a very kind gesture for a minor job given that opening the huge hangar doors would mean a tremendous loss of heat.

As his mechanic got to work and Ulrike and the kids relaxed in the office, he offered me a coffee. He asked where I was from, and as I went over my background, he told me full of enthusiasm, “In Eritrea we would see all the Hindi movies from India; Indian women are so beautiful! Why did you not marry one of those beauties?” Ulrike laughed on hearing that he had not considered her the right wife for me. In under an hour, while we chatted, the plane was repaired, and we were on our way to Edmonton City Centre Airport. In less than four hours, on Christmas Eve, we landed in sunny Edmonton with the outside temperature a balmy -5ºC.

In no time at all we were at the Conradi family home and the big front doors opened, greetings and laughter engulfing us as welcoming hands grabbed our suitcases and hung up our coats. We were just in time. Everyone, including Tara, was already there ready for the celebration.

Christmas Eve began with a good swig of vodka. And since you never drink vodka on its own, we alternated each swig with bites of tiny Speckkuchen (bacon, onion and currant turnover) or some other fat-rich delicacy to soften the effects of the alcohol. We repeated this zakuska - a Russian, and Baltic, tradition - several times, helping to loosen my tongue and add Prost and Na Zdorovye to my vocabulary. Next came a cold buffet with rossolj (a delicious Russian salad made of red beets, matjes herring and potatoes), smoked fish and eel, smoked duck breast, and crusty breads of various kinds.

Later in the evening Ulrike’s father carefully opened the large, centuries-old, leather-bound family Bible and read a passage about Christ’s birth as candles, giving off a pleasant smell of wax, burned on the large pine Christmas tree, a pail of water at the ready for any emergency. Afterwards he sat at the Steinway baby grand and, smiling, played old beloved German Christmas songs, improvising the accompaniment. Singers crowded around, craning their necks to read the words on the sheet music, the rest of us humming happily along. Children then nervously recited poems that had taken weeks to learn in German, or they performed Christmas skits, adjusting a loose wing here or a slipping halo there. One or two played a piece on the piano or violin or cello, whatever instrument they were learning at the time.

All the while we nibbled goodies piled high on Christmas plates. There were Pfefferkuchen (a type of gingerbread), usually in star, heart, and crescent-moon shapes, Pumpernickel (not your familiar dark bread, but a hazelnut concoction) Sandplaetzchen full of butter, icing sugar and flour, and many other kinds of cookies baked months in advance by my mother-in-law. There were marzipan apples and pears, and slices of the famous Niederegger chocolate-covered marzipan bars, and mandarin oranges and nuts.

A tall St. Nick would come in through the French doors dragging a bulky bag. After he left it was time to open presents, a long slow process because each present had to be seen and touched, passed around and admired by everyone. As the candles burned down and Christmas carols or Handel’s Messiah played on the record player, everyone gradually grew quiet, sank deeper into a cozy chair, engrossed in a new book or toy while the evening drew to a close. But, this was only the beginning. We all looked forward to the next day’s family feast in which we would all thoroughly overindulge.

All too soon, these most enjoyable days were over and I had to think about flying back to Toronto. I hoped to arrive there December 30. This time Tara and Anita were coming back with me, and Ulrike and Julian would return later by commercial aircraft after spending an extra week with the family.

While in Edmonton, to protect the plane and especially to make absolutely sure there would be no possibility of parts breaking due to insufficient heating, I had parked the airplane inside a heated hangar. This way, when I finally started her up, she would be in good running condition and would have no cold-weather issues. On the day of departure, though, as I was doing the run-up, I sensed some engine roughness. Strange. The cold couldn’t have anything to do with it. Perhaps the magneto, the ignition system, was to blame, or maybe something connected with the fuel system, or moisture in the tank from being in the hangar. A couple of minutes later, however, during my run up checks, the engine roughness was gone. Whatever it was seemed to have corrected itself.

I continued with my preparations, got my IFR clearance to Saskatoon and taxied to the active runway. On the roll out, with full power, she once again did not respond in the usual way - there was a noticeable hesitation. I started to climb, keeping an eye on the gauges, ears alert, wondering if things would settle. But they didn’t and on reaching 1,000 feet above ground, I reported the engine roughness and requested a return. By the time I was on the base leg and ready to land, however, I again felt everything had come back to normal. Should I land now or continue? I opted to continue. I did not feel one hundred per cent at ease, but let it slide, something I had been taught never to do.

The rest of the flight to Saskatoon was uneventful. After refueling and getting a bite to eat, we got a clearance to Winnipeg and departed in the early afternoon. The cockpit was colder than normal. I gazed at the outside air temperature gauge, which showed -28ºC at 9,000 feet. Tara was asleep in the front with me, looking cold with her hat, scarf and mitts on. Anita, unusually for her, was awake in the back and gazing out of the window at the ground below. It was nearing dusk and stars were becoming visible in the crisp, Prairie sky.

By the time we passed Yorkton, it was fully dark outside. Suddenly I noticed something strange. The attitude indicator, which is a gauge that shows a miniature plane and its relation to an artificial horizon, had the little plane leaning as if in a left turn. I didn’t think I was turning. I looked outside to check. In the clear night, with the ground visible due to the snow and the towns twinkling brightly, I could see the horizon perfectly and saw that I was flying level. Obviously, the attitude indicator was malfunctioning.

To determine the cause of the problem, I made a rate one turn to the right for a few seconds followed by another to the left. The directional gyro was not responding either. This confirmed it: the vacuum pump had failed. A vacuum pump failure renders these two key navigation instruments useless. Thankfully, it does not in any way compromise the working of the engine.

I immediately informed the Winnipeg controller that I had suffered a vacuum pump failure, asking at the same time to be cleared down to 7,000 feet. He obliged. As I began my descent I thought, Why did I do that? She’s flying fine, the visibility, radio reception and gliding range are obviously better from higher up, and there are backup navigation instruments on board to help. I suppose, feeling vulnerable and rattled, I had instinctively wanted to be closer to the ground. Ah! That’s what my instructor had stressed in instrument ground school. He had warned us that in an emergency most pilots act instinctively and without thought, considering some action better than no action. On realizing a moment later the foolishness of reducing altitude, I requested a return to 9,000. The engine continued to do a fine job, immune to the navigation equipment failure.

As my heart rate returned to normal, I explained what had happened to Tara and asked her to help Anita retrieve my flight bag from the luggage hold behind her. I asked her to pull out the soap-holder suction cups that I had purchased for just such eventualities, as advised by IFR instructors. These fit nicely over the instrument gauges. I used them to cover up the attitude and direction indicators to prevent distraction by dysfunctional instruments. Center wanted to know our progress and whether any assistance was required. I informed them that all was fine now but that I would land earlier, in Brandon, Manitoba, about 100 miles west of Winnipeg.

A fire engine waited to greet us as we were pulling up to the terminal, a routine response in situations like ours. Luckily the plane didn’t need the fire engine, but we ourselves did because the airport by that time was totally deserted. We hitched a ride into town with it, the fire chief graciously taking us to the nearest hotel. After all this excitement we were glad to be able to go and relax in a hot tub, but not before I phoned in a report to Ulrike in Edmonton.

At 08:00 next day, New Year’s Eve, we arrived back at the Brandon terminal building with our fingers crossed. We knew it was highly unlikely an engineer would still be around on New Year’s Eve, and even more that he would be able to help with the vacuum pump. But, unbelievably, we had success on both fronts and would soon be able to continue the flight. I left Tara and Anita at the plane with the engineer and walked over to the briefing office to get the weather and to file a flight plan. Twenty minutes later, while I was in the midst of filling in the flight plan form, Anita ran up, agitated, and blurted out, “Papa, the engineer said to tell you that you’re not going anywhere today!”

We rushed back to the hangar where the engineer informed me, “You have a bent push-rod in one cylinder.” He had noticed it while changing the vacuum pump. A bent push-rod? This was serious and could lead to engine failure. Offhand he couldn’t offer any explanation as to the possible cause but seemed to feel that the roughness I’d experienced on leaving Edmonton may have something to do with it. Only an internal examination could confirm that. But why did the vacuum pump fail? Was there a connection or was it simply coincidence? No one knew. I could only thank my lucky stars, or Trevor’s horseshoe perhaps, that the vacuum pump failed when it did. It made me land earlier and possibly saved us from a real and potentially disastrous emergency.

I now arranged for the mechanics to fix the aircraft as soon as possible and then rushed out to see if we could fly commercially to Toronto. Luck was again on our side. There was a scheduled Canadian Pacific flight for Toronto right out of Brandon in three hours, and they had seats for us. While we didn’t arrive back in Toronto on December 30, as originally planned, we did make it back a half hour before midnight, New Year’s Eve, in time for a party with friends.

Six weeks later, the aircraft was ready. It turned out that one of the valves on a cylinder had become stuck, causing the push rod, which moves the valve up and down, to bend. Technically, there should have been very little or no power left on that cylinder. Since the plane has only four cylinders, the loss of one cylinder is a serious issue. Had I known one cylinder was not functioning, I definitely would not have departed from Edmonton. Yet I hadn’t felt any power loss, nothing except for that momentary roughness on takeoff, which shows how good those aircraft engines are (Lycoming, in my case). And as to the cause of the problem? Maybe the cold start in Regina? The engineers could not be sure; they said that this does happen on occasion.

Shortly after the repair was complete, I flew GVLD back to Toronto with two pilots, Gary, whom I had met in the lounge in Brandon and who offered to fly with me just for the fun of it, and Fausto Grazioli, an Italian banker and pilot friend. We departed for Thunder Bay with a weather forecast calling for ice fog with an outside air temperature of -28ºC for most of the journey except the last 50 miles. I’d never flown in ice fog before. Unlike in cloud, the temperatures in ice fog are so cold there is no chance of airframe icing occurring. When it’s that cold, sublimation via the wet or adhering state does not occur, so no ice forms on the aircraft surface.

I must admit I still felt tense and watched out for any signs of airframe ice, listening carefully as well to the sound of a newly repaired engine. I concentrated on the instruments, on keeping the aircraft straight and level and on the airway using only VORs, without an autopilot or GPS to help. After the three of us realized that all systems were fine, we were able to settle in and “enjoy” a true IFR flight in ice fog.

Flying in ice fog, I discovered, was like flying through thick white soup—endless white, zero visibility. You lose all sense of space, distance and motion. For all I knew, the plane could be standing still. Only the flight instruments and the muffled drone of the engine brought me back to reality. Flying like this minute after minute, hour after hour for nearly four hours was absolutely mesmerizing. The plane could begin flying sideways and in circles and I wouldn’t realize it if I didn’t stay focused on the instruments. Fortunately, I wasn’t alone in the plane which helped break any hypnotic spell.

Later, upon hearing my story, my IFR instructor, Barrie Aravandino, told me he thought that flying through ice fog for such a long stretch, particularly in a single-engine aircraft, was ill-advised. Looking back I probably agree and have never done so again.

A half-hour before Thunder Bay the sky started to open out, and we landed in VFR conditions, stopping there for the night. The rest of the flight to Toronto the next day was smooth and uneventful.

On landing at Buttonville I turned to GVLD, patted her on the nose and gave her a big kiss. I did this from then on after every flight, a thank you for bringing us home safely. Humbled after what we had been through, I realized that no matter how experienced I might become, in the end I still depended on my plane and all its essential parts.

The lesson for me was stark. One is never too prepared; the unexpected does happen. It is important not to overextend one’s risk appetite. And it is crucial to pay attention to and respond to every unusual event.

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Chapter 2: Me pile it

11/23/2014

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    It took me an entire year to obtain my pilot's license. Financial constraints, conflicting work appointments, high demand for school aircraft bookings, and cancellations due to weather, all slowed things down. For two hardy lumberjacks it was much simpler. As the joke goes, Mo and Joe from the northern Ontario bush go into town and walk by a want ad for pilots in the window of the local aircraft charter office. They go inside and apply for the job. When asked about their experience, Mo responds, pointing to Joe, “He cut it, me pile it.”

    License in hand, I was certainly eager to “pile it.” But that was easier said than done. Buttonville was such a busy airport I constantly had to queue for aircraft rentals and could not take planes away for extended trips. After some consideration, I talked to an old friend, Fernando Rodrigues, to see if he might be interested in sharing an aircraft purchase with me. Fernando, without much ado, said yes. I was glad, but also surprised, because at the time he did not have a pilot’s license. “I’ll take lessons in the plane,” he explained, and did.

    In truth I should not have been surprised. I had met Fernando five years ago, plenty of time to realize this spontaneous yet practical decision was not out of character.

    Fernando is someone with the independence and adventurousness of Marco Polo and the determination of Napoleon. When he wants to do something, he can change course on a dime, joining me, for instance, at little more than a moment’s notice on a flight. Though witty and easygoing most of the time, he does not tolerate fools kindly, especially if they are blocking his lane on the expressway. Priding himself on living frugally yet enjoying life to the fullest, he has become a jack-of-all-trades. Because of his background in engineering and years spent rebuilding things from the ground up, he can fix anything--plumbing, electricity, cars, houses, sailboats. Planes now became part of that list. Despite our being a bit of an odd couple - I was more meticulous and cautious in my flying, he more freewheeling - I felt we would be good flying partners; and I would feel a lot safer. Little did we know at the time that Fernando would come to play a major role in many of my future flights.

     We bought a 1973 Cessna 172, call sign C-GVLD, from an aircraft broker called Manfred Humphries. As part of the deal, Manfred had offered to take me up for two free hours of IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) instruction, which means flying using only the instrument panel for navigation, without reference to the ground and horizon. Essentially, it qualifies pilots to fly safely in bad weather. On the day we were to go up, a week after taking possession of the aircraft, I recall phoning him from Buttonville. He asked me to pick him up from the Toronto Island Airport, about 20 miles to the south. I was a little hesitant. The day was cold and breezy, and I noticed strong crosswinds. I said to him on the phone, “Manfred, are you sure today is a good day? From where I’m standing I can see the umbrella outside shaking in the wind.” Manfred shot back, “Sounds to me like your knees are shaking in the wind!” I picked him up an hour later.

    To help defray the cost of owning the plane, I rented it out for a while to a couple of other pilots. One of them, Trevor Tomkinson, became a good friend. Trevor, who was IFR qualified and rated for floats and twin-engine aircraft, worked with Transport Canada, the Canadian equivalent of the U.S. Federal Aviation Administration (FAA). Hearing about the twists and turns in my life, Trevor would often tell me that I was “born with a horseshoe up my ass.” From then on, whenever an unexpected turn for the better occurred, Ulrike and I would look at each other and say, “Ah, Trevor’s horseshoe!”

    By March of 1980 I had obtained a night endorsement. This removed the problem of limited daylight flying time in a country that was short on daylight hours for nearly half the year. That same month, with a scant 120 hours of flying experience under my belt, “peanuts” as I would later learn, Ulrike and I undertook a flight to New York City—an exciting destination for my first long-distance flight. Another couple, brave souls even more innocent of experience than we were, joined us. Ulrike’s sister, Nixe, had taken time off from teaching German in one of the German language schools that flourished under Trudeau’s multicultural policy, and so had her husband, Niels, who was always busy as an architect, designing hospitals and schools in Edmonton, Alberta. Thrilled and naive, we took off.

The closer we got to New York the more nervous I became. The reality took hold that landing at a large international airport was a frightening prospect for a novice small-plane pilot. The New York area is undoubtedly one of the busiest air traffic areas in the world with three major airports: JFK handles international traffic, LaGuardia national traffic, and Newark in New Jersey both national and international. Corporate and private aviation (collectively called general aviation or GA) is handled by a number of other smaller but extremely busy airports in the region, in New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut, the three neighboring states collectively termed “Triboro.” Among these GA airports, Teterboro Airport in New Jersey is the largest and busiest; it is also the closest to New York City, which is why I chose to land there.

The Triboro area on the aeronautical charts has large red circles in decreasing sizes that frequently overlap, each demarcating a control zone. To get to Teterboro, I would have to transition through a series of control zones, the controller of each zone handing me off to the next in quick succession. I knew each controller would assign me a new radio frequency, changes in altitude to control my descent and specific compass directions to integrate me into the complex traffic pattern, and would warn me of other traffic close by. They would also expect immediate acknowledgment of the message and a rapid radio response.

    This onslaught of radio chatter would continue nonstop for over half an hour. I realized that I needed to be one hundred per cent on the ball all the time in order not to screw up the radio transmissions, the flying and the navigation. There would be no forgiveness for any sloppiness in my integration with the heavy and faster traffic. If I was even slightly careless, I could veer into the path of other planes and cause a crisis situation.

    With every passing mile the number of radio transmissions from all the traffic converging on this area multiplied. I began to perspire. Palms cold with sweat, I repeatedly tried to get through to Teterboro Arrivals to let them know we were heading their way. But I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. The brief requests, abrupt replies, instructions and acknowledgments had become an uninterrupted stream. How would I ever manage to get my request for landing through? Finally, in half a panic, I simply jumped in, trying my best not to fumble my words in the hurry.

    “Teterboro Arrival. This is Cessna Skyhawk Charlie Golf Victor Lima Delta, VFR at 5, 500, squawking 1200, estimating 40 miles northeast, with information Lima.”

    The controller instantly replied, “Canadian Skyhawk, stand by.”

    I waited anxiously to hear a follow-up. Numerous transmissions went by, but none addressed to me. It seemed like an awfully long standby. Had the controller forgotten me? About five minutes later I jumped in again.

    “Teterboro Arrival. Golf Victor Lima Delta.”

    Immediately I heard, “Canadian Victor Lima Delta, squawk 3314,” followed moments later by “Canadian Victor Lima Delta, you are radar contact, maintain VFR at all times.”

    Once in the hands of the controller, everything went unbelievably fine, like walking: step one, step two. All I had to do was follow radar vector instructions until the airport was in sight. Finally, amidst hundreds of transmissions I heard our aircraft call sign again.

    “Victor Lima Delta, turn to 300 degrees now, and descend to 2,500 feet. Call Teterboro Tower when established, on 124.80.”

    In quick succession came landing instructions, a heading to follow to the runway and then the magic words:

    “Canadian Victor Lima Delta, you are cleared to land, number two, behind the Mooney on three mile final.”

    After landing, a wave of relief washed over me. I had made it. Taking deep long breaths, I slowly unclenched my body. As I taxied past an impressive array of corporate jets, larger light aircraft and numerous little ones like ours, I couldn’t help but give myself mental pats on the back. I had managed. Yes sirree. I was now one of them.

     After a very pleasant stay in New York City where we got our fix of plays, operas, old hotels with saggy beds, museums, gourmet food, rain and broken umbrellas, we set off on our return journey. As we were cruising along, fairly high at 9,500 feet and with mildly bumpy conditions, my brother-in-law Niels suddenly leaned forward and asked if we could land at the next airport. He needed a washroom badly. If only he had said something earlier, I could have landed just twenty miles back. Now, forward or back it would be fifteen minutes to touchdown. What a dilemma. Could he manage that long? He would have to.

    Five minutes later he informed me that all was fine and to forget the landing. What? It turns out that a plastic bag and a new cheese bowl we had purchased in Manhattan had done the trick. Ever since, two wide-mouth pickle jars have become mandatory flight paraphernalia. They work wonderfully and have been used successfully many times by gentlemen and ladies alike.

    The flight to New York gave me a major boost in confidence. From then on I felt ready to tackle most anything. When I later told my flying instructor Bal Suagh about our trip, he exclaimed: “You did what! I have over 10,000 hours of flying experience, and I would still hesitate to fly into the Big Apple Control Area.” In retrospect it was a good thing that I had not talked to him about it earlier, because he might have talked me out of it. It was this experience that largely removed my fear of flying into large international airports very early on. Naïveté may have some benefits after all.

    Even though Bal himself would not have taken this trip, he had laid the groundwork for me. He had been an excellent instructor, very demanding and thorough, quick to criticize, but equally quick to praise. His instructions, many of which are indelibly printed on my mind, have guided me over the years. I will never forget, for example, one instance when we were practicing landings in crosswinds. I must not have been correcting appropriately for the wind conditions on approach because the aircraft drifted, was being pushed away from the centerline. Bal gently reminded me to turn the control column so that the plane would bank (that is, head into the wind), which I immediately did. As we touched down, instead of increasing the turn into the wind as required when slowing down, I instinctively straightened the column again. This was dead wrong. A strong crosswind could now lift one wing and topple the plane. Instantly Bal rapped my knuckles hard and shouted, “Did I teach you that?” My crosswind flying has never been a problem since.

    Unfortunately Bal’s own flying career was cut short some years later. While vacationing with his family in Punjab, India, a freak accident occurred. During a tour of a plastics factory with a relative, a minute particle of plastic flew into one of his eyes. He was rushed to the hospital where doctors told him that a microscopic sliver had penetrated the retina and that it needed to be removed immediately. Bal, however, chose to get the operation performed in Canada, returning at once to Toronto. It was a costly delay. Doctors operated, but without success. He permanently lost his sight in that eye and with that his ability to fly, a devastating experience for a man for whom flying was everything. I couldn’t believe it. One tiny moment; and fortune turned. It made me wonder what was in store for us.

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Chapter 1: The flying bug

7/19/2014

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***

    Who hasn’t yearned for adventure? Who hasn’t paused for a moment while reading the morning paper - a faraway look in their eyes? Or driving home some evening, mind in neutral, who hasn’t suddenly felt that magnetic pull to somewhere else, the next town, the next country, around the globe? Wondered how it could be done? Dreamed, made plans, but then turned back? Because there’s never any room for that. Because the everyday with its comfortable routines and pressing needs squeezes out exotic visions. Because it’s all too complicated.

    Sometimes, however, life can be a rooster at four a.m., waking you with a sudden call - insistent, irresistible - that changes life forever.

       For me there was no turning back. It was that call that got me out of bed on this particularly dark and freezing December morning in Toronto in 1977. My alarm had just gone off at an unbearably early 5 a.m. I glanced over at Ulrike, snug as a bug. As much as I might have wished, it was too late to cancel my flying lesson an hour and a half before the scheduled time.

    I couldn’t schedule lessons at any other time of day because of work. I had to be downtown on Bay Street by nine at the latest and couldn’t guarantee getting away by a particular time in the evening. To be honest, the early mornings weren’t so bad. The lessons were only once a week and I knew that as soon as I was out of bed and on my way, I’d be looking forward to it all.

    Dressed and slightly more awake, I phoned the aviation flight service station (FSS) for a weather briefing. A cheery voice announced, “As long as you don’t mind using the scraper on the car windshield to begin with, the rest of the morning should be just fine.”

    The moment I stepped outside I realized how cold it really was and pulled my parka hood firmly over my head. As forewarned, I did have to scrape the frost off the windshield before I could even think about backing the car out of the carport. It was a grim reminder of what might be facing me at the airport. I prayed someone had had the forethought the night before to park the school aircraft inside the hangar. If not, I knew it would take at least half an hour to get the frost off the wings and other surface areas of the Cessna. My warm bed suddenly seemed very inviting indeed. Was this really worth it?

    There was also the cost. Flying was expensive, at least for our young family: $55 dollars per hour for the aircraft rental and the instructor’s time. One class a week added up to $3,000 for the year, a sizeable chunk out of a disposable income of $16,000. The mortgage for our very modest suburban brick bungalow was small, but because of high interest rates, the payments were significant. Our car, Ulrike’s aging red Volkswagen Beetle, a high school graduation gift from her parents, would also have to last a few more years. I had a small pang of conscience as I tried to start the frozen car.

    Luckily, Ulrike never complained - at least out loud. She, too, was excited at the prospect of flying in the skies one day. As I scraped the windshield in the dark, I wondered what her day would be like at home with Tara, our four-year-old, and my ailing mother. Unlike me, Ulrike was a naturally early riser and would soon be getting up.

    Once I was behind the wheel, all qualms vanished. With the heater on full blast, I drove north along Kennedy Road, towards Highway 401, stopping briefly at my usual, Dunkin’ Donuts, to grab a coffee and Danish. Cruising along the highway toward Buttonville Airport on the northern edge of the city, I broke into a smile. Everything was perfect. The morning was crisp and clear, the radio was tuned to my favorite FM station, the traffic was light, the coffee wonderful, and I was driving to the most prized destination I could imagine.

    Soon I would be up in the air heading over Toronto’s still dark streets towards its skyline glittering in pre-dawn light, towards the needle of the CN tower, the emphatic pale pink marker for a right turn. Then I’d be skimming along the frozen shore of Lake Ontario as the night sky brightened, the stars dimmed, and the sun slid over the horizon to begin a new day. There would be barely any air traffic to worry about at that hour, at least as far as light planes were concerned. And in those days, instructors kept us far away from the heavy jet traffic at Toronto’s Pearson International. As always, thinking about my flight sent joyful shivers up my spine.

    When I drove into the airport parking lot, there was no one at the ticket booth yet and hardly any cars around. It was difficult to believe this was one of the ten busiest small airports in Canada. Inside the terminal building, I walked through the coffee shop, the chairs still turned upside down on the tables from the previous night’s mopping. The only sign of life was the flight school dispatcher Dave, behind the counter. He greeted me, simultaneously flicking the security door switch underneath the counter to let me out into the secure airport apron area. I walked through with my flight briefcase, once again fully zipped up in my parka, gloves donned, winter boots buckled, ready for round one.

    Thirty-five minutes later, I had done the pre-flight walk around the aircraft using my flashlight, brushed and scraped the frost off all the surfaces, started the engine and pulled up to the gas pumps. Ten minutes later, with both high-wing tanks filled up, I taxied back to the terminal building to pick up my flight instructor, Bal Suagh. The aircraft cabin was now toasty, it was precisely two minutes to seven, and I was still smiling as he climbed into the aircraft with a friendly, "Good morning."

    As the propeller cut speech short and drowned out our conversation for a moment, exhilaration surged. Both the plane and my spirit rotated upwards and lifted into that open-ended, God-only-knows-where-it-might-take-me wonderful space.

    Sometimes I still couldn’t believe it. Here I was, at the age of twenty nine, learning to fly. As a young boy, I’d often watched planes flying around airfields near Calcutta, the city of my birth. During my second year of university in Calcutta, I even applied to the Air Force in my eagerness to become a pilot, but was turned down because I needed eyeglasses. Disappointed, I applied to and was accepted by the Officer’s Training School of the Army—definitely a wrong turn. I couldn’t accept that I, a novice officer-in-training, would one day have to give orders to older and more experienced men simply because they had not had the benefit of a university education. Very early morning wake-up calls furthered my disgust. So did climbs up forty-five-degree hills with a heavy backpack at temperatures high enough to wilt a cactus. No, the army was definitely not for me. I backed out at considerable financial loss to my family. Flying now disappeared from my radar as I turned to other possibilities.

    After graduating with a Bachelor of Commerce in 1969, I knew that the logical next step would be to apply for an entry-level management position at major corporations. But I wasn’t ready for that. A world was out there to explore. I had to go.

    My father, on hearing of my decision to leave India, complained, “Beta (son), that’s irresponsible.” I could understand that coming from my father. He had had an arranged marriage at thirteen, had been the only member of his family to finish high school, had fled Pakistan to India with a wife and two children at the time of partition in 1947 and had, through initiative and many years of hard work, become a wealthy businessman. As the owner of the well-known Cambridge bookstores in Calcutta and Darjeeling he had supported not only his own family, but also the families of his four younger siblings. Clearly he knew where my priorities should lie.

            My mother appealed to me:

            “Papou (a nickname that has stayed with me), don’t go. There is a good future for you here. What             is there to see in the world?”

            My friends all thought about joining me:

            “Areh, Papou, love to go, too, but, you know, I already have a job.”

            “My three sisters, have to get them married. You know how it is. So sorry.”

            “Responsibilities. My elderly parents. I’m comfortable here. But do go on. Keep in touch.”

    My friend Khokon Guha was the only one eager to come along. Our plans were simple: to go to America. Traveling on an old cargo ship, a dhow, we headed first across the Arabian Sea to the port of Khoramshar in Iran. We camped on deck beside a group of hippies to avoid the ship’s stifling hold which was filled with cargo and with workers and whole families on their way to work in the Middle East. Their hammocks were strung up in every available space. After a brief stay in Tehran we hitchhiked to Europe through Turkey, Greece and Yugoslavia.

    With only $15 (USD) in our pockets - all we were permitted to take out of India at the time - we were in definite need of additional income. In Greece, we donated blood. In Yugoslavia, in the small malls of various towns, we sold jewelry and trinkets we had brought along from India. The local women, for whom these items were novel and beautiful, crowded around us, outbidding each other. We didn’t understand a word, but everyone left satisfied. Stuck at the Austrian/Yugoslavian border without a ride, we spent a quite comfortable night in a jail cell courtesy of the Austrian border guard; it was a good thing that the night shift left a note regarding us for the morning shift! Finally, in Stuttgart, Germany, we earned enough at a car parts factory to purchase airline tickets to North America.

    We arrived in Toronto in May 1970. When I went through immigration as a visitor at the Toronto International Airport, I had exactly $10.60 (CAD) in my pocket. The immigration officer naturally wanted to know how much more money I would be sent later from overseas. When I answered that that was all I had to my name, he looked incredulous. Of course, he then became more interested in knowing how I was going to support myself. Luckily, Khokon’s uncle in Toronto had offered to provide for us financially. A few months later we applied for and received our immigration papers, and three years after that, our Canadian citizenship.

Ulrike with her book and the Beetle.

The 'beauty' upstairs.

In 1970 I also met Ulrike. We were both renting rooms in a student rooming house on the University of Toronto campus. I recall the day she moved in, on the floor above me. My new friend, George Sawa, a tall Egyptian with a huge halo of brown curly hair, said to me, “Narwani, you have to see this beauty who just moved in upstairs.” Naturally I agreed. I sauntered upstairs pretending to call on Lucy, who I knew had a crush on me. In the narrow hallway upstairs, at a little coffee table, sat this girl dressed in a green army shirt and tight blue jeans, holding a book in her hand. She had hazel-green eyes, an hourglass figure, and blonde hair down to her waist. (I also had long hair at the time, down to my shoulders. It was the Age of Aquarius and Hair, after all.) To top it all off, what a wonderful smile she had! She looked so young I guessed she’d just entered her undergraduate program. Weeks later, after we had dated a few times, I discovered that she was enrolled in a PhD program in Slavic languages and Russian literature. By then, I had started an evening program for a degree in management accounting, and was working during the day as an accounting clerk. All this time, flying was nowhere on the horizon.

Ulrike, Dru, Bob Banks, George Sawa (from left to right). Friends sharing the rooming house on Sussex Ave. in Toronto.

We married in 1972 and by 1977 both of us had graduated. I was by then in a middle-management position at the head office of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce. Ulrike was busy with Tara. We had little money and so were fortunate our talkative little “jabberwocky” was easily satisfied. She loved to play with onions on the kitchen floor, wear tights on her head, and collect leaves in the fall, stuffing them into her closet "to protect them from winter." Ulrike was also learning “kitchen” Hindi to communicate with my mother, who had come to live with us and barely spoke two words of English. Who would have thought at the time that this Hindi would stand Ulrike in good stead in later years?

Tara, the little "Jabberwocky"!

     Then the fates intervened. One morning in the fall of 1977, while reading the newspaper on the subway on my way to the office, I read a section about flying schools in the Toronto area. As the train passed station after station, the car gradually filling with people, an old dream resurfaced. My studies were behind me, and I had more disposable income - I could now learn to fly.

         Never one to wait when I wanted something, I phoned as soon as I got into the office and made a booking for a half-hour familiarization flight at the suburban airport of Markham. With that spontaneous action, flying entered my life. At the time I could not have imagined its impact on all our lives and the incredible adventures it would lead to over the next twenty-five years.

***

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Chapter 4: Oolong and Mayerthorpe

Chapter 3: By the seat of our pants

Chapter 2: Me pile it

Chapter 1: The flying bug

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