Born To Fly Page 17
The controller became curious, ‘VH-OLS, Where exactly are you from? Oh my, you’ve come a long way!’
I lined up and when cleared, I took off. The controllers wished me well, not once but twice, even when I was well out of sight and on my way. They were great guys.
We were required to stay low and track in a certain direction before having the freedom to fly as we pleased, so I levelled off only a few hundred feet above the ground. The problem was that all the aircraft had different airspeeds. I banked to the right to overtake a Piper Cub, a slow little yellow aeroplane that became a yellow blur as I zipped past. After I had turned to track for Appleton, a Cessna 172 appeared in my right window. I had never been so close to another aircraft in my life. As fast as he was there, as fast as I reacted, he was gone.
I touched down in Appleton just as I had down earlier in the week, parked up and began to work away. The doona cover was removed, the ferry tank and wing tanks refuelled and the HF aerial reinstalled. After being packed the aircraft was back to how it was when we crossed the Pacific Ocean. Although I didn’t need the tank to fly from Appleton to my next stop at Bangor in Maine, it was a great opportunity to test the tank over land. It hadn’t been used in a while and the last thing we needed was to have something go wrong over the icy waters of the North Atlantic.
It had been an amazing week, with one more stop in Bangor before heading into Canada I was about to say goodbye to the USA. In the next week I hoped to successfully find myself on the other side of the pond, sitting in Europe.
I woke in Appleton early, made my way to the airfield and pulled the plane from the hangar. In no time I was programming the flight plan into the avionics, a leg that would take me into and then out of Canadian airspace before landing in the northeast corner of the USA.
I waved to my distraught Mum and proud Dad, the family who still remained after the air show. It would be a long while before I saw a familiar face again and as I removed the park brake and taxied towards the runway I felt just a little anxious.
The flight went quickly and was reasonably relaxed, though I had a few jobs to do. These included testing the ferry tank. As soon as I was in the air I began to transfer fuel; it felt like forever since last time I had done that. The tank seemed to be working just fine as I zipped into Canadian air space, and in no time I was crossing Lake Ontario and skimming the border of Canada and the USA. A controller queried my registration and accent, simply wanting to know what was going on. I told him about the flight and how I was on my way around the world, all in the hope to arrive back in Australia in a month or so. He was blown away, and he asked whether I would like to track directly over Niagara Falls. That didn’t take a lot of thought.
Guided by him, and trying to watch where I was going, I fumbled a bunch of cameras as I flew over Niagara Falls. I was at 5000 feet but had a fantastic view of the main circular falls that lead into a long narrow gorge under the large bridge linking Canada to the USA. To see the sheer volume of water and the way it moved was phenomenal, not to mention the ‘Maid of the Mist’ boats that now looked like bath toys. It was moments like this that made me realise just how far I had come, but also just how far I still had to go.
The rest of the trip to Bangor was uneventful, tracking over the kind of rural scenery – trees and meadows as far as the eye could see – that I imagined was typical of this part of the world. Very little in the way of towns or villages. I touched down at the Bangor airport with nearly full wing tanks on the Cirrus. The ferry tank had been used for most of the flight and to my excited relief it had functioned perfectly. I parked up and caught a ride to the little terminal, had a quick chat about the Customs and other requirements on leaving the USA. This took some time: USA security was both complicated and tight.
There was little to do to the aeroplane, I filled the wing tanks but left the ferry tank as it was. With a little fuel still in the ferry tank the next leg would allow me to completely empty it, which I needed to do to determine exactly how much fuel was on board for the flight across the freezing Atlantic to Reykjavik in Iceland, my next stop. A few airport employees whisked me off for lunch in Bangor and insisted that I try the lobster for which Maine is famous. We ordered a small plate of lobster and, being a little unsure about that, I also ordered a quesadilla for insurance. You can never go wrong with a quesadilla. (Yes, Mum, the lobster was okay.)
I was given a little gift bag that included a stuffed moose called Monty, who joined a growing zoo of stuffed toys that had been gathering in the Cirrus throughout the trip. That had started with a minion from the Despicable Me movies, named Mike by my Facebook followers. The gang was slowly growing.
I arrived back at the motel and met up with a reporter for Channel 5 News, a news station that reminded me of a movie set in a small town. After a quick chat it was off to bed.
With first light being 4:30am I woke worried, the last thing I needed was to miss my takeoff. I called Customs to double-check the final requirements and it was lucky I did; a form was missing from the small tree of paperwork already submitted, without which I was going nowhere. I spent the next hour on the phone and laptop trying to sort the issue and eventually I was good to go. When something like this happens after all those months of planning, you begin to doubt yourself and wonder what else you might have forgotten. All you can do is continue and hope the guy at the other end of your flight is friendly.
I said goodbye and climbed on board. I sat Monty the Moose next to Mike the Minion, and after organising the paperwork around me I took off from the USA for the last time.
I crossed the border from the USA to Canada and it was a bittersweet moment. I didn’t want to leave the USA, but the only way I was getting home was in the Cirrus, and if I wanted that to happen I needed to get a move on. I began to hear controllers and pilots speaking French on the radio, and though I had spent a few years learning to count in French class it was safe to say I had absolutely no idea what they were saying. The dense dark green trees began to be separated by little lakes and it was just as you would imagine Canada to be. The lack of civilisation was confirmed by a loss of radio coverage. I just couldn’t talk to anyone but that seemed normal around this part of the world; the controllers had even told me it would probably happen. I requested descent after I found cloud at my cruising altitude, a quick look at the outside air temperature indicated that ice could form on the aircraft in these below-zero conditions and therefore the warmer air down lower would be a better option.
I tracked visually for the airport and set up for a landing, just off to the right a floatplane took to the skies and turned away from my path. The runway was huge. Goose Bay in Newfoundland is a common stopover when crossing the North Atlantic. It sees some very large aircraft, although the Cirrus didn’t really fit that description. I touched down and taxied towards the Woodward FBO. I remembered seeing a picture of the building online very early in the planning stage. It had stuck with me and now there it was, I was actually in Canada. I sat quietly in the plane and kept everything closed up as Customs drove up to the aircraft, they looked very official so I kept any emotion to a minimum. It turned out they were absolute champions, all they wanted to do was chat about the flight: ‘Why on earth would you want to fly around the world with one engine? Are you okay?’
I unpacked and dragged my bags inside, the Cirrus sat next to a broken United Airlines jet and an orange water bomber. I had watched a TV show called Ice Pilots about ferrying a water bomber across the North Atlantic and in typical reality TV fashion they made it look as if they were attempting the feat with a kite that faced a guaranteed fiery end. That said, I didn’t want to make too many assumptions until I was sitting sipping tea in the UK.
There were a few young Canadians running the FBO and they asked all sorts of questions about the trip and took a few photos with the Cirrus. We organised Customs and refuelling, restocked my supply of oil and chatted away about life in Goose Bay. I mentioned how I spotted the endless lakes on the way into Goose
Bay and we began talking about float planes, which led to them finding out I had never been in an aircraft on the water. They decided they needed to fix that. Within twenty minutes the owner of Air Labrador, a float plane operator based nearby, was on his way to pick me up. Instead of checking into a motel I was suddenly going flying. I like a little diversity in my day.
I hopped on board a twin-engine turbine Otter which underneath had two enormous floats that bumped back and forth against the dock. There were two pilots and one was the highest time Twin Otter pilot in the world with over 48,000 flying hours. They loaded timber, or ‘lumber’, into the rear of the aircraft and I squeezed into a seat right at the rear behind the heavy load.
We idled from the dock and flew off. I sat back and looked out the window taking in the lakes and bushland as they passed by. We touched down on a lake in the middle of nowhere, taxied around a small headland and parked up against a dock. It was old and broken, the water looked cold and I didn’t think I should walk on or anywhere near it. The dock led to a little island but the island was all on its own. The pilots set the timber in a pile centred on the small piece of land before a helicopter appeared over the hill. The pilot sat the helicopter down and proceeded to secure the load. He was slinging timber underneath the helicopter and taking it to an Australian construction site just over the hill. This was way too cool.
On the flight back to Goose Bay I hopped up the front in place of the co-pilot. I was now taking in the tree-covered Canada from the cockpit of a lumber-loaded floatplane. I might as well have been Canadian.
At three the next morning the alarm went off in my motel room. I had changed the tone because it had gone off in the early hours of the morning one too many times and I was starting to hear it in my sleep. Hoping to wake up fresher I had chosen an upbeat, positive jingle. It made no difference; 3am was 3am.
I was planning on a 5:30am departure. Weather information was vital and I had asked the forecast to be faxed through to the FBO office at 4:45am. I needed to check and double-check the conditions. There couldn’t be too much cloud due to the low temperatures in the north, and below-zero temperatures and cloud meant the water droplets would freeze when they made contact with the aircraft, creating ice and quickly degrading the performance of the Cirrus. Scary.
Standing on the plane after completing the 9-hour journey from Goose Bay in Canada to Reykjavik in Iceland. That was approximately 8 hours and 55 minutes too long in the immersion suit.
The white cliffs of Dover. World War 2 aviators knew they were home when they saw these cliffs and many were the same age as me. A humbling experience.
The hotel owner translates the local Greek newspaper article on Teen World Flight — a lengthy process
Enjoying the sights of Cannes, France, on two wheels
The outer walls of the ‘old town’, Rhodes, Greece
The hills of Jordan
The peculiar crop circles in barren Saudi Arabia
The bustle and chaos of a Sri Lankan street
With previous world record-holder, James Tan, in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
One of the many great handlers, Jeff, in Kuala Lumpur
Low-lying weather before departure from Malaysia
William Creek, Australia, population 2. The only place where I ordered avgas through the pub
A g’day for Pa on my return to Wollongong, Australia. No doubt many stories to tell. (Photo by Dylan Robinson)
A humbling experience — from a wide-eyed young dreamer to sharing my adventure with Prince William at the Governor General’s reception, Canberra. (Photo by Andrew Taylor/Commonwealth of Australia, Government House)
I arrived at the FBO but the weather forecast hadn’t. While I chased it up on the phone I began to prepare the plane for another departure. I checked the oil and then secured the oil cap. It’s funny how a flight over water suddenly makes you paranoid. I must have checked that the cap was on properly at least five times. I packed the aircraft and headed back inside to find the weather forecast was sitting on the fax machine, I grabbed it and said my goodbyes.
I spent the next ten minutes next to the Cirrus, squeezing my legs and arms into a bright orange immersion suit. The Switlik Company had kindly sponsored the suit and a life vest, the immersion suit was a fitted full-body garment sealed at the hands and neck and including fully sealed boots. If I had to ditch in the North Atlantic I wouldn’t survive for long. The immersion suit was designed to lengthen the survival time by keeping the body warm and dry for as long as possible. It was heavy and cumbersome, almost like wearing snow ski gear from the 1980s. The seal around my neck was tight. I knew for certain that not a drop of water could enter the suit, and with the life vest on top of all that I knew that this was not going to be a comfortable flight.
I squeezed into the left seat amongst the bags and equipment and put on my belts, started up and began to program the avionics, sort out the paperwork around me and check the HF radio. The HF wasn’t working. I didn’t know what had happened but I wasn’t receiving any signal through my headset. I jumped on the phone and called Darren Gibson from Macleay Aircraft Maintenance in Kempsey back in Australia. He had installed the HF and I figured he would be the best one to speak to. Within minutes we had a solution and the welcome, yet unwanted, harsh squelch of the radio began beaming through the headset.
I called up air traffic control and requested 7000 feet for my flight, even though for a leg spent almost entirely over water the lowest safe altitude for flight within cloud was higher than 7000 feet over Greenland. Instead of tracking directly to Reykjavik in Iceland I had decided to fly over the tip of Greenland. If the weather was no good at Reykjavik or I had any issues on the way I could choose then to divert to an airport in Narsarsuaq just to the west of my flight path.
I started the engine. I was off to Europe!
CHAPTER
17
The phantom menace
I tracked over land on the climb to 9000 feet, noticing immediately just how cold the air was. The temperature gauge sat well below zero and I knew it would only get colder. I levelled off and ensured the first ferry transfer was out of the way. The tank had been bone dry just before refuelling in Goose Bay so I knew exactly how much fuel was on board, something that gave me significant peace of mind. I transferred from the standard VHF aircraft radios to the overwater HF radio even though I wouldn’t need it for long. I could speak to the air traffic controllers from Canada, then switch to the controllers from Greenland before finally chatting to the guys in Reykjavik.
I flew all the legs of the flight early in the day because as the afternoon went on, typically the weather would deteriorate. I was fairly relaxed, the sky was clear yet the water looked cold.
This leg was renowned for aircraft icing and the experienced pilots had expressed the need for caution many times throughout the planning stage.
The cloud and water vapour in the air would form as ice on the aircraft if the air temperature were below zero degrees. When ice forms on the aircraft it blocks any view from inside the cockpit as the windscreen becomes opaque, but more worryingly it builds on the wing and changes the shape of the one device carefully moulded to keep you in the air. The worse the ice on the wing becomes, the more lift the wing loses, up to the point where it will stop flying altogether. Ice grabs on to anything it can, even a propeller blade spinning 2600 times a minute. Basically, ice is dangerous. Very dangerous.
I began to zigzag back and forth to remain clear of cloud, which at this stage wasn’t a big issue as it was still fairly clear. I continued to do this for hours but there came a moment where I could no longer stay visual and clear of the icy clouds. I had looked everywhere hoping to see an opening but had no luck. Everything happened so quickly, the next thing I knew I flew into the cloud. The Cirrus was designed to fly low and while it didn’t have the ability to outclimb the weather, it could descend into what was hopefully warmer air. The problem was that this far north all the air was cold; you would have to end up very l
ow before the temperature climbed back above zero and the ice on the aircraft began to dissipate.
As ice began to form on the windscreen and the leading edges on the wing began to thicken and frost, I hoped against hope that the cloud was thin. When you don’t have much flying experience it is hard to gauge just how bad a situation is. I knew that other pilots out there would think this was nothing. In fact it didn’t look all that bad but as some pilots say, any ice is too much ice. All the same, I kept thinking of something I read once: ‘You begin life with an empty bag of experience and a full bag of luck. The goal is to fill the bag of experience before you empty the bag of luck.’
And then the cloud suddenly thinned and finally disappeared and the sun shone down on the Cirrus’s white wings. I looked down and saw a sight I will never forget. It was Greenland. It was a place of brown mountains that looked like shattered rock, with snow and ice in its crevices and cracks. Nothing green could be seen anywhere, of course: I remembered as much from my primary school days where I learned that Greenland was ice and Iceland was green. But in the waters surrounding the land were icebergs, real icebergs, small mountains of blue green ice sparkling in the sun. They were beautiful, but they were also a constant reminder of the water temperature and the conditions I was flying over.