FLIGHTS OF FANCY Pt 2 - second trip
My other long flight was also to visit Marg, now based at Ernabella Mission, in the Musgrave Ranges, South West from Alice Springs.
About four years have gone by, and I am now a hot-shot Commercial Licence pilot (CPL), just a bare CPL, but getting that licence had been a useful experience in itself, even if I did think that I was better than I probably was. At the very least, though, I now definitely knew that "there is a rock in every cloud" and that while "there are Old Pilots and there are Bold Pilots, there are no Old, Bold Pilots".
Aircraft choice was easy, as the Ballarat Branch of the Royal Victorian Aero Club, where at this time I did most of my flying, had a Piper PA-22 Tri-pacer, now a bit long in the tooth, on the strength. I had been the first pilot in the Royal Vic to convert onto it when it was new, but had not flown it all that much. It had range and goodly speed - just the job.
Tony was to be passenger; this was before he started to learn to fly, but of course he was the ideal passenger, totally reliable in any emergency.
I had a paddock at Tandarra registered as an airstrip. It met the requirements, with the 1:30 approach over the power lines taken into account, but suffered from being rather wettish at the south end after rain.
The Tri-pacer was ferried down from Ballarat, fuelled up and loaded for an early start. Key in the door lock - and it broke off flush with the face of the lock! Panic! Tone managed to catch just enough of it with his finger nails and to draw it out, so we had a chance. Down to the farm workshop, and bronze welded the key back together again, cleaned up with a file, and it worked! But time lost can never be regained, since aeroplanes have such a narrow cruising speed band.
Started up, and of course a slight breeze had now got up, so that instead of a take-off in nil wind towards the South with some 3,000 feet of strip and a fence at the other end, we now had 2,000 feet plus a 1:30 gradient over a power line. And the field was wet, and the grass was a bit longish.
Taxied down to the South end, turned around, lined up on the crown between two lands from the last time it was ploughed (just a bit higher and drier) and opened up. To say that the performance was a bit disappointing would be an understatement but, according to the Book, there was plenty of room. When she lifted off it seemed that perhaps there wasn't all that much room after all and I had a vision (it is with me to this day) of the power line passing underneath the nose, out of my sight, of me unable to resist easing back a fraction - and mushing down onto the wire. At least I had previously imagined something like this, and had convinced myself that, in spite of the look of it, there really was ample room to fly under the power line.
I stuffed the nose down and determined to have all the speed I could get, for maximum control, and I aimed to clip the fence with about three feet to spare, thus making sure that there was plenty of air gap between fin and power line. Of course, it all worked, although there was a mite of reaction, felt as a quickening of the pulse and a slight tremble in the legs, as we climbed away......It was found at the next overhaul that there was a broken piston ring in the engine; perhaps that was where a little of the urge had gone?
The flight went well from there on, as we passed Nhill and on to Renmark, where we re-fuelled before pressing on to Leigh Creek for another re-fuel. Next stop was Oodnadatta; I remember the view of Lake Eyre, stretching away over the horizon, a sheet of white salt as far as you could see, with no sign of water.
Time was pressing a bit now, that hour lost with the broken key was gnawing at our heels.
As we turned around the Woomera Rocket Range and set course for the Musgrove Ranges. I really believe that things would have gone seriously wrong hereabouts, as I became very unsure of our position and, except that Tone recognised a distinctive mountain ahead of which he had seen a photograph, which gave us a position, I am not sure to this day that I would have found Ernabella. It was pretty near last light when we did come across the strip, and I, for one, was glad to be down, safe, after flying for a total of just under 11 hours in the day. However, that was not the end of my troubles, not by a long way; there was more action yet to come, before we were all the way home again.
At Ernabella we were fascinated to see the tracking powers of the Aborigine demonstrated on several occasions; on one, Marg was seeking someone in the camp. She asked a native woman if she had seen him. Woman looked at the sandy ground, marked with a mass of bare footprints, and said, "He went that way a little time ago, missie."
Tone and I went in the truck, taking supplies to outlying sheep camps. The back of the truck filled up with Aboriginal men, armed with the most dreadful .22 rifles you can never imagine (they lose the screw holding the barrel to the stock, so wire, or tape, the barrel on). They were going to shoot kangaroos for meat.
After some miles there was a great shout from the back, so we stopped and all but two, who didn't have rifles, got out - this was where kangaroo had been sighted recently. The truck driver told them that he would pick them up at 4 o'clock by this windmill, and they had better be there, and off we went to the various sheep camps, where the sheep were folded each night as protection against wild dog dingo.
Upon return to the appointed meeting place in the afternoon there was, of course, not a sign of anyone. However, the two who had stayed with us were standing on the back of the truck and one pointed off to the side, so that way we went. The country was lightly grassed, with scattered trees, and was nice smooth going. We drove at about 20 mph while these two, standing up on the back, called out directions - they were tracking their friends by some marks which, strain as we might, we could not discern. After a couple of miles we came upon the first of the successful hunters, waiting patiently with his kill. And thus for the others also.
It is always possible for an Aborigine to see that someone has been about, no matter how they try to avoid leaving a mark. And, of course, they know everyone by his footprint. So, if someone wants to act illegally he cannot hide the fact that he has been about; therefore he wears shoes made of feathers, so that his identity shall remain secret. Of course, the fact that marks of someone wearing these shoes has been seen causes great concern, since it means that there is trouble afoot.
Contact with the outside world was only by radio to Alice Springs, and the reception was very bad on the day we planned to leave so we were not able to obtain a weather forecast. However, it looked fine and settled so, leaving word that our flight details be passed to Alice Springs as soon as conditions allowed, we set off on the first leg home. A simple flight, east until the railway, turn right and follow it to Oodnadatta.
Ernabella strip is quite high, and the temperature was high also, so that the Book advised that the takeoff run would be about double that required at sea level on a standard day and the climb rate about half ditto, but it was a DC3 strip and we were OK.
Settled into the cruise, and droned on, awaiting the ETA for the railway.
Surprise; a light shower of rain.
Time coming up, the railway should be in sight soon. No railway!
On and on; still no railway. What was wrong? Head wind? Seemed unlikely, but how to be sure? Decided that, to assume we had overflown the railway and turn back would put us into the rocket range if, indeed, we had not reached it.
Therefore, the reasonable thing seemed to be to fly on until certain that the line must be behind us, then turn back and find it. Having flown out into the Simpson Desert and done that, it now became only too obvious that fuel was not our problem - it was going to be dark before we could get to Oodnadatta!
The railway found; but to what use, as there was no strip on the map close enough to reach before dark. Turn south, where Oodnadatta was out of reach, or north? For whatever guides fools at such moments, I turned north, and we flew along the railway line. The sun went down; nowhere to land, the country covered with scattered trees and anthills. The latter I had decided were soft enough not to cause any serious problem from a collision, but a tree would not be so forgiving.
Then, and it was now nearly dark, I saw a clearish piece coming up. "That is IT" I thought, "That is the only place to try for a landing. At least, we will be near the railway."
With that, Tone said, "There is a strip, down there, on my side."
I banked over, to get a look out his window. Sure enough, by the railway was an ex-World War II emergency landing strip!
No time to give it a pass, as it would be dark in a couple of minutes, just turn, flaps down, line up and land. Pitch dark, and a torch away at the far end as we taxied slowly down the strip.
The torch was held by a railway ganger, stationed there with a small crew, to maintain the Adelaide to Alice Springs line. It was Abminga, not marked on the map, or perhaps it was off the edge of my map....
Of course, their telephone was out of order at the present, and it was 2200 before we were able to get through to Adelaide railway and request that the airfield be notified of our location. I learned the next day that the message had got through just in time to stop a Fokker Friendship which was taxying out to come and search for us!
When I asked "Why search at night, rather than by day?" I was told, "By day we would have to be very fortunate to find you but, at night, if you were down but OK you would hear us. You only had to run some petrol on the ground and light it, and we would see you from 20 miles away."
I have wondered ever since, "Would I have thought of that? Or would I have stood on the ground and watched it fly over and away?"
Now, the next problem was that, following the extensive excursion I had made, I didn't have enough fuel to get to Oodnadatta, and I certainly didn't want to wait until the next train brought some. The railway gangers had motor fuel for their little trolley, but I couldn't mix that into the main tanks.
Inspiration dawned during the night; the long range tank was empty. Put the motor fuel in that, take off on the main tanks (with avgas in them), switch to the long range tank when the power setting was reduced to cruising level (when there would be no danger of detonation), use it all up, and there we would be.
Telephoned through flight details the next morning, and arrived safe and sound at Oodnadatta at last. Filling in the Incident Report was a bit difficult, as I couldn't admit to having used motor fuel, but a little white lie got me over that. I put down that the "Fuel Capacity" on leaving Ernabella was what it would be if the tanks were full, leaving out that the tanks were, unfortunately, not full at all. The local Shell man was paid to get petrol back to Abminga, so that the ganger could balance his books.
Our "Hot Stuff" pilot was suitably chagrined by this adventure, I can assure you.
Adventures were not quite over yet, though. As we climbed out of Port Pirie the next morning, over the Adelaide Ranges, the first tiny cumulus (Cu) began to appear, and I kept above their tops. Later, as a glider pilot, I would have known better, but then I was greener than I thought.
After a bit it became obvious that these Cu were expanding, and were soon going to go to 8/8ths, and I would be on top of that!
A largish hole seemed an opportunity to descend to safer worlds beneath but, as others have found, you need a BIG hole if you are to descend in the normal fashion. There is only one way down a smallish hole and that is in a spiral - and you had better watch out that you don't make a mistake and fly into the cloud as you go round and round, as that would be the correct recipe for loss of control followed by structural failure and/or a dive into the ground at high speed.
Coming out of the bottom of the cloud, from bright sunshine above into the comparative murky dimness beneath, there can be difficulty in re-orientating oneself. Later, as a mountain wave glider pilot in Scotland, one got used to this, but it was unsettling this first time. Sorted out, we proceeded on our homeward way myself, at least, much wiser than I had been a few days previously.
Oh, yes. A re-evaluation of the events leading up to the Abminga episode showed that:
-My track from Ernabella was along the top edge of the chart; the next chart (not being required on this flight!) was in the back of the aeroplane, out of reach.
-Just off the chart which I was using, the railway turned to the west, towards me.
-I must have been a little to the north of my planned track and passed the railway (probably in the rain shower) well before I was expecting it.
The moral? If planning to fly anywhere near the edge of a chart, make sure that you have the adjoining one handy.
My Commercial Licence was never used to fly for hire or reward, except to joy-ride passengers for charity! The first effort was in the Auster, at Lismore. I was going well, with a quick turnround, taking two clients at a time around Lismore and back for a fixed price. I was also prepared to take people to see their farm, for an estimated extra price to cover the extra distance. So, with a husband and wife aboard, (she on her first ride in an aeroplane), we set off for another trip. Throttle open, stick forward, tail up and the speed climbing towards 40 knots for lift-off, the aeroplane suddenly dipped to the left. I thought,
“Bother, there must have been someone bogged here and left a rut – but I have driven all over this field and didn’t find any ruts.”
And then the nose went down and the propeller flew to pieces, and we came to a swift stop. The port axle had failed and the undercarriage leg had dragged in the ground. I had visions of the belly tank rupturing and fuel flowing forward onto the engine exhausts as I turned around and frantically undid the lady’s seat belt. We all got out, no one hurt, and I said,
“I’m very sorry about this, but just so long as you are not hurt, I can only give you back your money.”
“No” said the lady, “We still want to fly. Can we go in one of the other planes?” Which they did.
I had no recollection of turning off the fuel or switches, and so was pleased to note later that I had done so.
My other joy-riding effort was a few years later, with the Ballarat Club Cessna 172. This was a great money spinner, as it carried three passengers. I had a good ground crew, who organised the next set of passengers into “heaviest in the front and lightest in the back”, got out those who had just had a flight and strapped in the new load. They were about as quick as I could do the pre-takeoff checks, so we were really operating at a great rate. This was from a field near Lismore which was a bit short, but the organisers of the charity show (called a “Rushabout” as it consisted of motorcycle grass-track races and ‘banger’ racing with the joy-riding as a background) pulled up a section of fencing to give me a good length run, a safeguard which I never needed.
I always enjoy taking people for their first flight, and I also enjoy ‘getting in the groove’ with repetitive trips, so that the approaches and landings are really spot on.
I used a number of fields over the years, being careful as to the surface conditions, and was always careful not to indulge in low level beat-ups. I was very nearly caught once though, when I landed a Tiger near to my brother-in-law’s house. On the landing run I was horrified to see a group of rocks, gathered by some former ploughman and hidden in the grass, flash past under the wing. A couple of feet to the side and my wheel would have struck them, with disastrous result!
A particularly satisfying trip was to take my father in the Auster for a survey of the flooded areas around Lake Corangomite, and of the drainage channels which had been provided for the alleviation of the flooding.
Some flights were not so happy, though. One in particular being an aerial search in an effort to locate the bodies of fishermen drowned in Lake Tooliorook.
One of my favourite memories is of a flight from Lismore to Ballarat in a Tiger. It was a lovely morning following a frost, and the shadows of the trees maintained the frost just outside their boundaries, as the sun melted the frost from the unshaded areas. However, as I approached Skipton, I became aware that a southerly breeze had started and was causing orographic uplift cloud over the rising ground towards Ballarat. Descending, it was obvious that there was no way under the cloud. Climbing up a little though, I could see that there was a gap in the cloud which seemed to be leading in the direction of Ballarat. I thought that it was worth a look and trundled off in that direction, always keeping a good lookout behind in case my route home should seem to be coming blocked. There was the city, and I knew where the airfield was. As I approached the position of the airfield there were lumps of cloud moving and I thought that, if I was smart enough, I could match a gap with the field. Sure enough, there was a gap, and there was the field, and a sideslip through the gap and we were down. The Chief Flying Instructor was very surprised to see me, as he had cancelled all flying.