April 2013, at the Nav Canada Flight Information Center (FIC) in Québec City. This morning’s meterological forecasts indicate the possibility of dust devils. This type of obstacle to visibility is rare. The pilots call the flight service specialists (FSS) to know what “PO” means on the weather charts.
In spite of the calm winds and blue sky all over southern Quebec, the weather conditions can give birth to local wind shears. If they lift sand, dust or other small particles, those wind shears will become visible and cause dust devils five to ten meters in diameter.
A pilot would have to be unlucky to cross a rare dust devil. However, I remember an event I witnessed thirty years ago while I was working at the Transport Canada Rouyn-Noranda flight service station.
On a hot summer day, an aircraft landed in Rouyn-Noranda after a cross-country flight from Montreal. The pilot was making a short stopover to have his logbook stamped at the flight service station. The weather conditions were ideal at the airport: dry air, calm winds and a cloudless sky.
Once his run-up was completed on the taxiway, the pilot slowly headed for the runway 26 threshold. Once aligned and ready for take-off, he made the last few adjustments.
Few seconds later, the flight service specialists heard an emergency locater transmitter signal. Looking again at the runway, they saw that the aircraft was still on the threshold, but upside down.
A strong windshear had overturned the single-engine aircraft. The airport wind speed indicator being located farther away from the threshold only indicated calm winds.
The souvenir of this story reminded me that nature can always surprise the best prepared pilot. I imagine that this event shocked the student pilot as he tried, like us, to figure out what had just happened. I do hope that this adventure did not discourage him from flying.
(Precedent story: the UFO invented in Inukjuak in 1983)
Inukjuak during a blizzard that forbid landings for days.
The winter 1982-1983 was fierce in Inukjuak (CYPH), in the Nunavik. There was a period when the winds were strong enough and the visibility reduced to the point that a rope had to be attached between the staff house and the flight service station. A Transport Canada flight service specialist (FSS) had to hold a rope to guide himself from one building to the other. And good luck to the FSS who would try to carry his meal on a tray between both buildings. A hand held the rope while the other one took care of the tray which was going in all directions. On one occasion, tray and food found their way in the snowbank.
Due to strong sustained winds, snow sometimes reached the roof top of the Inukjuak flight service station.
After a storm which seemed endless, I remember that the employees had to dig steps in the hardened snow in order to reach the flight service station door.
We sometimes had to dig in the snow to free the door and enter in the Inukjuak flight service station
This blizzard, which lasted twelve days, had prevented any takeoff and landing. There was no more milk for sale in the Inuit village, as it was now reserved for children. Hardly one hundred feet over us, there was a perfectly blue sky, according to the pilots who had tried to land on multiple occasions. But one morning, an Austin Airways pilot decided to risk an approach.
A red square was useful to help the employees find a building during a blizzard in Inukjuak.
The pilot could not benefit from any precise navigation aid during his approach, as the airport was only equipped with an NDB. So he trusted his local knowledge and what was left of his judgment. He knew that the staff house was painted green and situated just beside the runway. I guess that he prepared himself to aim for the colored staff house then make a sharp turn at the last minute. He dived into the storm, estimating the wind drift as much as he could.
At that same moment, our cook was working in the staff house’s kitchen. He was facing a huge bay window and was stunned to suddenly see the nose of a Twin Otter appear a few meters away from the window at the same time as a steep turn was being made to avoid the building. Reverse thrust was immediately applied to immobilize the plane as fast as possible. The cook repeated what he witnessed to every employee. I guess that helped him to unwind a bit.
As this was not enough surprise for the day, the plane’s doors opened and, instead of the much needed milk cargo expected by the villagers, we witnessed about ten passengers stepping out the plane and chitchatting like nothing ever happened. This unorthodox approach to the Inukjuak airport would now be one more story added on top of all the others told by pilots offering daily air service to northern Quebec villages along Hudson Bay and Ungava Bay coasts.
(Next story: the cockpit of a KLM Boeing 747 during a night flight over the Atlantic)
De Havilland Canada DHC-7 Dash 7 over the Kokoda trail in Papua New Guinea
Steep turn made by a Dash 7 (FSX) landing in Kagi, Papua New Guinea
If you are looking for a real challenge, try a flight from Kokoda airport to Kagi, using a DHC-7. Kagi is situated along the Kokoda Trail in Papua New Guinea. The runway has a 12.5 degree slope and is approximately 447m long (1466 ft). The airstrip’s altitude is about 3900 ft msl. You will need the ORBX scenery (AYPY) Jacksons Airport made by Ken Hall and Tim Harris, as well as other Orbx products such as Global, Vector and Holgermesh to do the flight and obtain the same views as above. In order to find the airports, two maps are included in the “User documents” included with AYPY.
A Dash 7 (FSX) on final for Kagi, Papua New Guinea
I adjusted the fuel at 50% in each tank. For payload, I used 5 passengers and luggages. Obviously, the aircraft could have been loaded with many more passengers and cargo. But since it was a first trial at Kagi with a Dash 7, I thought that a lighter payload would increase my chances of a successful landing by reducing the approach speed.
A United Nations Dash 7 after landing uphill on runway 07 in Kagi, Papua New Guinea
The landing in Kagi is made on runway 07 and the takeoff on runway 25. From Kokoda airport, follow the Kokoda trail then, when appropriate, make a right turn toward Kagi. There are few airports within a small area so it can get a bit confusing. The best way is to overfly the area slowly to ensure that what you see in flight and what is on the map are both the same airport.
The two most difficult aspects of the approach are the steep turns required while flying close to the mountains in slow flight configuration, that is to say with full flaps and wheels out. The second problem to keep in mind is the sloped runway: 12.5 degrees is not negligeable. But once you are on the runway, the Dash 7 will almost stop by himself due to that slope. The takeoff on runway 25 is not a problem with that aircraft: with such a sloped runway, you will be airborne in no time.
A United Nations Dash 7 ready for takeoff on runway 25 in Kagi, Papua New Guinea
De Havilland Dash 7 airborne from Kagi
I am convinced you will enjoy this demanding flight. There are lots of plants and trees included in the scenery, so it makes for a very realistic approach. Have fun and make sure your passengers will still have a smile on their face when they get out of the airplane!
(Precedent story: illegal fishing on the Innuksuak river)
An Austin Airways Twin Otter is getting airborne during a snow shower in Inukjuak, 1982. In the background, the Environment Canada upper air station.
A Transport Canada manager had to occasionally leave the comfort of his office in Montreal to visit one of the flight service stations located in Northern Quebec, in the Nunavik. So in 1982 he made the journey to Inukjuak (CYPH), using Nordair for the leg between Montreal and Kuujjuarapik (CYGW).
From there, an Austin Airways Twin Otter brought him to Inukjuak. But few minutes after the aircraft was airborne from Kuujjuarapik, the cloud base dropped dramatically and the pilot later told the flight services specialists (FSS) in Inukjuak that he had made the trip with no more than 200 feet of clearance between the Hudson Bay water and the clouds.
The airplane arrived in Inukjuak during the afternoon. At dinner, the chef offered a hot meal, but the manager refused to eat anything, stating that he had absolutely no appetite. He later told us that to see the surface of the water so close to the plane and feel the mechanical turbulence throughout the trip had cut his appetite. The flight services specialists realized that their manager was not very comfortable with “non standard” flights.
An Austin Airways Twin Otter on takeoff from Inukjuak in 1982.
On the return flight, he was the sole passenger on board, the remaining space being occupied by cargo. The FSS knew the pilots very well and asked them a small favor, which was a takeoff with a tight turn to the right. This was done skillfully and certainly created a surprise with the traveler.
On the flight back to Montreal, while on a stopover in La Grande (CYGL) he sent us a message via the La Grande flight service station teletype that spoke volumes about his appreciation of the turn. I must say, in all honesty, that the pilot had given more than the client requested, and that the traveler had the chance to experience a 70 degree right turn. It was enough to keep him from traveling up north for a while.
(Precedent story: flight service and the Transport Canada Training Institute in Cornwall)
1982 Northern Quebec view from a Nordair B737
Summer of 1982. Today is the departure from Montreal towards Inukjuak (CYPH), a northern Quebec Inuit village, part of the Nunavik. There, I will start working as a flight service specialist (FSS) for Transport Canada. Nordair’s Boeing B737 takes off and immediately heads northward. It will fly along James Bay and, upon reaching Hudson Bay, will land in Kuujjuarapik, its final destination. From there, an Austin Airways’s Twin Otter will take us over to Inukjuak , an isolated posting further to the north on the east coast of Hudson Bay.
A Boeing B737 landing on the Kuujjuarapik (CYGW) 5000 feet gravel runway uses special procedures. This is a short runway for a loaded aircraft, and braking is less effective than on asphalt. There is no significant margin for error. The wheels must touch as close as possible to the runway threshold, followed by maximum breaking. Passengers really feel the deceleration. The same calculation applies for takeoff: the pilot positions the aircraft close to the runway threshold then applies both the brakes and maximum thrust, and once the appropriate parameters are reached , releases the brakes. As usual, weight and balance, density of the air, airport altitude as well as direction and strength of the winds are all precisely calculated for the aircraft to be airborne before the end of the runway.
1982 Kuujjuarapik. A Nordair Boeing B-737 in the foreground and an Austin Airways Twin Otter in the background.
1982 A flight service specialist (FSS) working at the Kuujjuarapik station, in Québec
After a short stopover, the Twin Otter is now ready for the trip to Inukjuak. The takeoff from Kuujjuarapik goes without problems. I am sitting in the first class section, behind some cargo held by a net. For champagne, I will have to wait for the boxes to be removed from the hallway.
1982 Cargo and passengers in the Twin Otter
1982. A view of Sanikiluaq from an Austin Airways Twin Otter.
Then a slow descent is started to Inukjuak. From my window, I can see a small group of narwhals. I feel like I’m dreaming but, after a quick research in scientific documents, learn that narwhals can be found in small groups mainly in the north of Hudson Bay.
The aircraft is now getting closer to Inukjuak. The flaps are extended and it is possible to see the runway before the airplane turns on final. It is two thousand feet long and made only of sand thick enough to render its surface unstable.
1982 Austin Airways Twin Otter on base for the Inukjuak airport runway
Upon arrival, someone comes my way with a motorcycle. He offers me a ride to the staff-house, even if there is only a fifteen or twenty seconds walk. I politely declined the offer, but the personage insists. Not wanting to give a bad impression just as I arrive, I finally accept and try to find a small place on the seat of his tiny motorcycle. Hardly have we started to move into the soft sand that the driver loses control of the vehicle. We fall (what a surprise!), but there is no serious consequence. Welcome to Inukjuak!
1982 Inukjuak inhabitant and canoes used for traditional activities
After a proficiency check, I soon find myself flying a Cessna 170B (tail wheel) on a flight across Canada, from St -Jean-sur- Richelieu, Quebec, to Edmonton, Alberta. I am accompanied by the aircraft’s owner who has not yet completed his private pilot course. The 1952 Cessna flies well, but has absolutely no instruments for air navigation, not even a VOR nor ADF. And the era of the portable GPS is not yet upon us.
Fourteen 1:500,000 VFR charts, covering the planned flight, are folded, glued and numbered. I trace the expected flight path on each chart, with 10 miles landmarks. This will facilitate the monitoring of our progress, considering the absence of navigation equipment. The preparation now completed, the take off is done on a beautiful summer day of 1981.
1:500,000 VFR charts used for a flight toward Edmonton, Canada, in 1981
We do stopovers at Gatineau, North Bay, Sudbury and then fly along Lake Superior to Wawa.
Small break in Sudbury on a VFR flight to Edmonton in 1981
We fly around Lake Superior to our next stopovers, Thunder Bay and Fort Frances. Over large forested areas, with no major landmarks, the gyroscopic precession must be corrected frequently so as not to stray too far from the intended track. Sometimes when it facilitates navigation, we either follow a railway or main roads. There are some instances where the westerly winds are so strong that our ground speed is slower than a car on a highway.
From Fort Frances to Kenora in 1981, with a Cessna C170B
Our flight path follows a line that keeps us away from areas of high air traffic. I choose to fly north of Winnipeg terminal control area, thus avoiding frequent radio exchanges with air traffic control in a language I do not master. The underperforming radio would not be of any help at any rate. This option eventually means that we must fly over Lake Winnipeg, in its southern portion. We have enough altitude to be able to glide to the other side in case of an engine failure. Nonetheless, we realize that we are gradually loosing several thousand feet due to the cold air mass above the lake. This with maximum power applied. The unexpected descent eventually ends, but it is now impossible to have an engine failure without ditching in the lake…
The crossing of Lake Winnipeg with a Cessna C170B in 1981
Near Lundar, Manitoba, the aircraft’s old gauges indicate a significant loss of fuel. It is surprising since we refueled an hour ago. We must land the plane on the nearest runway, but the strong crosswinds exceed the capabilities of the aircraft. Nonetheless, an attempt is made with the result that only the left wheel accepts the contact with the runway. As soon as the right wheel also touches the ground, the aircraft becomes airborne again. A nearby field is selected to make a precautionary landing so that the fuel status can be verified. We fly at low altitude over the electrical wires and the cows in the adjacent field, and touch smoothly at a ground speed not exceeding 15 knots. A farmer witnesses the landing and arrives in his red pick-up to offer some help. The tanks are almost full, so the plane only needs few liters of gasoline. Once this is done, we take off westward. It appears that the old fuel gauges of this 1952 Cessna are now totally unreliable…
Landing in a field with a Cessna C170B in Lundar, Manitoba in 1981.
We leave Manitoba through Dauphin and enter Saskatchewan. If we were to experience an engine failure above such uniform fields, the risk of serious problems at landing would be virtually nonexistent.
Near Yorkton, Saskatchewan, in flight with a Cessna C170B in 1981
The weather is slowly deteriorating. We choose to land in Watson, Saskatchewan, on the nearest runway.
The runway surface consists of muddy earth and grass, and it’s delimited by small red wooden panels. As we touch the ground, the tires splash mud everywhere, including under the wings.
The Watson runway, Saskatchewan, in 1981
The King George motel in Watson, Saskatchewan in 1981
Finally, the weather improves and a takeoff is made toward North Battleford, the last stop before Edmonton. The sloping terrain forces us to fly lower and lower near Edmonton, under an overcast stratocumulus, limiting our ability to see a long time in advance the correct airport from the three available (international, civil , military ). Luckily, everything goes well in choosing the right airport and approach, but we cannot say the same with radio communications. The sound quality coming from the old speaker is awful and the English spoken by the air traffic controller too fast for us. The combination of these two factors causes the controller to repeat more than once his instructions until he finally decides to slow down and we can officially say: « Roger! »
After spending few days in Edmonton it is now time for the return flight to St-Jean. This proves to be much easier and faster because the westerly winds push the aircraft. Our ground speed is sometimes double what we had managed to get on our trip to Edmonton. The journey took us twenty-five hours to go and eighteen hours to come back.
Cessna C170B in flight over Canada, summer 1981.
Climbing to 9,500 feet on the return leg to St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, in 1981.
VFR “on top” with a Cessna C170B in 1981 over Canada
Over North Bay, Ontario, the weather is ideal. But we will have to land in Ottawa while waiting for thunderstorms to move away from Montreal and St-Jean-sur-Richelieu. After a total of forty- three-hours of flying time, the old Cessna 170B is landing back to St- Jean -sur- Richelieu.
(Precedent story: Accidental night flying…without night rating.)
The night flying rating was completed during the following weeks. I then had to accumulate hours of night flying, so I took advantage of a cold winter evening without clouds or wind to do a round robin trip from St-Jean-sur-Richelieu. I brought along three passengers in a Grumman Cheetah and headed towards the Eastern Townships.
The St-Jean-sur-Richelieu control tower was closed at the time of our departure. Runway maintenance followed an irregular schedule as the work was being done by civil servants from the municipality who were also responsible for street maintenance in the city. In cases where freezing rain fell, followed within hours by a significant cooling in the temperature, the runway condition would deteriorate rapidly. We sometimes had to wait until the next morning before a team came in and tried to bring the braking conditions on the runways to an acceptable level.
This is what I realized as I was taxiing towards the threshold of runway 29. The landing light illuminated what appeared to be a smooth and icy surface rather than a paved one. The braking index of the three runways provided by the city was useless. I still had the option to cancel the flight because there was no emergency. We could also accelerate slowly and use the rudder smoothly. The airplane would take off in seconds in the cold air.
I chose the second option, the winds being calm and the plane took off easily. Soon, we could see the lights of the surrounding towns. It was a smooth night ride for the passengers. After an hour of flight, we returned to the airport. The controls had to be dealt with carefully, in order to avoid any skidding. Aware that I was landing on an ice rink, and that there must not be any swerve to one side or the other of the runway, the approach was made as slowly as possible and the brakes were not applied after touch down. I let the aircraft gradually lose its momentum while rolling down the entire length of the runway.
I am convinced today that those passengers remember that night flight positively, if just for the beauty of the city lights and the absence of turbulence. It was also an interesting experience for me, as I was having the feeling of controlling a boat rather than a plane on a runway.
(Next story: The Commercial Pilot License – A flat on landing)
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?“!
