(Precedent story: the commercial pilot license / a tire bursts on landing)
On a hot summer day of 1981, I was asked to fly a Cessna 150 to the Montreal Pierre-Elliott-Trudeau international airport to pick-up one of our flight instructors and bring him back to St-Jean-sur-Richelieu. The winds were blowing from the northwest, so runway 28 was being used. While I was in final for that runway, the air traffic controller realized that he did not have enough separation between my plane and a heavy one that was also in long final. He told me “Increase your speed, there is a Boeing 727 behind you”.
It is very easy to increase the speed of an airplane while maintaining an altitude. You just push the throttle and the speed increases. However, when the aircraft is above the threshold of the runway, it needs its specific speed to touch the ground otherwise it continues to fly until the appropriate speed for landing is reached. It seemed to me that the Cessna floated for an eternity before finally touching the runway. But it eventually worked out well and I exited the runway before an overshoot was required for the Boeing.
So I parked the aircraft near Transport Canada’s offices and waited for the instructor for about thirty minutes. Clouds were rapidly covering the sky in this late afternoon, with all the humidity and an already high temperature. When the instructor finally showed up and we proceeded with the taxiing procedure, the air traffic controller told us: “You must accept radar vectors for your departing route because of the weather.” What weather? A cold front was at work, but nothing serious was visible from our position. So close to the airport terminal, all we could see were towering cumulus, nothing else. We accepted his offer in order to be allowed to leave the airport.
The take-off was made from runway 28. I made a left turn toward St-Jean. We soon understood why radar vectors had to be followed. A storm had developed between Montreal and St-Jean. We observed what looked like five cylinders created by heavy rain. Lightning was also occasionally visible. We had to fly between the cylinders to avoid the most problematic areas. We tightened our seat belts just as the first bumps were being felt, making our altitude vary considerably. Knowing what I know today about flying in bad weather, I would not attempt another flight like this one, especially without an onboard weather radar.
The flight ended nicely with a smooth landing in St- Jean, outside of the problematic weather area. A few weeks later, I was asked if I would accept to be captain for a long flight across Canada. This unexpected offer represented a great opportunity, especially since it would allow me to log more than forty additional flying hours.
(Next story: a visual flight (VFR) from St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Quebec, to Emonton, Alberta)
Montreal, 2012. Juste à temps pour prendre cette dernière photo, avant la démolition du bâtiment.
I was lucky to be able to take this picture. Being in Montreal for a winter photography session with a Canon 5D MKII, I went by a street where some employees were busy demolishing a building. There was an interesting scene to be taken but I had to get much closer before I could start shooting. The site was fenced and under surveillance while workers were active, so the access was forbidden.
As lunch time was approaching, I decided to wait a bit, hoping that the workers would leave the site for a quick bite. I was expecting the security guard to accompany the group and forget about locking the fence. That’s exactly what happened. As soon as the last employee had disappeared, I was on the site with my photo equipment. By the end of the afternoon, nothing was left of the building. I hope that you like this picture, as much for the scene as for the small murale done by the unknown artist,murale that is today only a souvenir.
Note: For this real story, since I did not have a camera with me in the aircraft in the 1980 flight, I reproduced the flight on a simulator using a Piper Cherokee (which is the closest I could find that looks like the Grumman Cheetah).
Shortly after obtaining my private pilot license, in 1980, I was asked to pick up a plane parked in Earlton, Ontario, three hundred nautical miles northwest of St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, and bring it back to St-Jean. To get to Earlton, I was in the company of an experienced pilot and we left together on a single-engine Grumman Cheetah. For the return flight, each pilot would fly his own plane, following one another. My companion would lead in his aircraft because he had all the necessary navigational charts to get us back to St-Jean.
Along the way we had to deal with a cold front which delayed our arrival to St-Jean. Before the journey started, I was assured that we would arrive before darkness. It now seemed a bit tight.
A nice evening light over the parc de la Vérendrye.
My companion had accelerated the pace. Two facts became obvious: first, the sunset was beautiful. Second, I did not have my night flying rating. This sunset meant that there was about thirty minutes left before total darkness.
I called him on the radio to enquire if he still believed that we would reach St-Jean on time. He answered that we were at the limit.
I then enquire about the possible existence of a button that would illuminate the instruments at night. The button was found and soon the instruments took on a pinkish color. Then came the questions about the essential tools for a night flight. He named the few.
Réserve du parc de La Vérendrye at night time.
With minutes passing by very quickly it now seemed impossible to arrive before the official night time as we had not yet crossed the Montreal Pierre-Elliott-Trudeau control zone.
Approaching Montreal, I tried to communicate with my companion but there was no more reply. The only navigational fix available for this improvised night flight was the small red rotating beacon on the tail of his aircraft. Strangely, its intensity was gradually weakening. My companion was getting away, his plane being a faster one.
Montréal in sight. It is the first time that I see Montréal from high above during the night. I did not expect I would do so while flying a plane without holding a night rating.
I increased the power and adjusted the mixture to gain a few knots, while focusing on the little red dot that could direct me to St- Jean-sur-Richelieu. I was not too happy with my performance. I should have insisted from the beginning, to have a copy of all the documents. But this flight seemed so simple. Lesson learned.
We flew through the Montreal international airport control zone. In the night, the strobe lights of big airliners were visible on the approaches to landings or during take-offs. Abusing the engine a little bit, I gradually decreased the distance from my companion’s aircraft. Unable to hear anything due to the lack of documents that would provide the local frequencies being used, I simply followed the aircraft ahead of me.
Suddenly, the distant red beacon started going down in the night. I supposed we were getting close to St-Jean-sur-Richelieu. My companion was certainly communicating with the airport control tower to announce his intentions. This was a frequency I knew by heart. I ran the risk of calling him on the tower frequency to ask for tips to land at night. The answer was short and uncertain, because he knew that radio communications were recorded. The only advice he could find was: “I do not know what information to give you, take your time.” The air traffic controller heard this and offered me the presence of emergency vehicles, an offer I politely declined.
A Lake Buccaneer seaplane pilot flying in the area heard the communication and told the controller: “Advise him to turn his landing light on!” I replied that it was not functional. It had been observed during the pre-flight checks at St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, but it was not supposed to be a problem since we were flying during daytime only.
The first step towards a landing is to know the relative position of the plane from the airport and its three runways. When you have never flown at night, the view is different and requires an adjustment. Once the runway in use was identified (runway 11), the next step was to imagine that the flight instructor who trained me was sitting next to me. He would require good positions in the circuit, exact altitude according to each leg of the circuit pattern, appropriate speed and flap degrees, and finally an approach with a suitable angle.
At the time, all I knew about night flying boiled down to one eminently practical aspect: there was a wooded area at the beginning of runway 11 and I did not want to descend too much and hit the top of those trees, invisible in the night. However, being too high above the runway threshold would mean that the wheels would touch too far away past the threshold and the remaining runway length would be insufficient to stop the aircraft the ideal way, that is to say in one piece.
During the final leg of the approach, although my attention was fully dedicated to the procedures, I could feel that the rhythm of my heart had accelerated. On short final, everything happened quickly. The plane flew above the wooded area, the runway approached rapidly and the two wheels of the main gear touched the runway gently. The brakes were applied immediately and everything was over.
The main issue was now solved. I requested guidance from the air traffic controller to taxi down to the flying club. He jumped on the opportunity to ask me, a smile in his voice: “Are you going to take your night flying rating now?“!
