In earlyJanuary 1965, I was shovelling the walkway to my parents' house near the end ofa massive winter storm. The unmistakable whine of decelerating jet engines gotmy attention. The sound was not uncommon as our house was on the glide path foraircraft landing at the nearby Canadian Forces Base Chatham. I was alert to thereverberation of planes overhead night and day, but not in a snowstorm.

Theunfamiliar whistling continued to build as I looked up into a wall of snow. Apowerful landing light suddenly sliced the darkness, followed briefly by aglimpse of a colossal form finding its way steadily into the storm. It was myfirst look at the CF101 Voodoo. It was massive compared to the other planes Ifollowed at the base. I had read they were bought from the American armedforces and were being stationed at CFB Chatham.

The nextschool day, I searched the library and found what I could about these powerfulbehemoths. They were almost 70 feet long and had a wingspan of 39 feet. TheVoodoo operated at a 35,000ft level, driven by two engines with a combinedforce of over 15,000 hp. Voodoos were an all-weather jet interceptors. For yearsfollowing, they repeatedly proved it as they took off and landed in allseasons, under any conditions. They would be scrambled (quick mobilization) tointercept Russian aircraft flying down from Greenland.

Capable offlying over 1,000mph, they often took off late at night, occasionally hittingtheir afterburners and lighting the night sky.

In October1986, I was thirty-three years old and working in educational management.Things were good. During this period of relative calm in my life, I began tothink of learning to fly. This was not a sudden urge but one that had grownslowly and steadily from seeing that beauty twenty years ago. I had to satisfythe curiosity and enjoyment I felt watching any aircraft.

I was, andto some extent remain, one of those people who try to control as many parts ofmy environment as possible to avoid "complications." I won't bore thereader  with my attempts to find a sourceof the neurosis. It is enough to say that while its effects on me today are notas crippling, the scars remain, and the dark horse never entirely disappears.

The firstexperience of this "condition" came in the form of claustrophobia.When I was about ten, Tim, the meat manager at the local Co-op, locked me inthe store freezer on a lark. He was probably having a slow day and looking forsome harmless entertainment. What emerged when he opened the door was me, likea scalded cat, plowing through customers and upsetting display cases. That setthe stage for more events, some with equally dramatic effects, over mydevelopmental years.

Strangely,against this phobic backdrop, the seed of flying began germinating. By the timeI was thirty, I had flown enough as a passenger to experience how uncomfortableand, at times, terrified I was in a plane. But, like my dad, there was a slightcourse correction when my mind was set. I wanted to understand how and why theplane flies so that, at some point, I could learn to experience rather thanfear flying.

Oneevening, while reading the weekly newspaper, I saw an ad for flight training.Miramichi Air, a local flight company, was holding an open house. I went andtook a free introductory flight, talked with a few instructors and lit thespark.

MiramichiCity was a community of fewer than 20,000 people. The flight training schoolwas also small, with a few single-engine planes, including a Piper Arrowtrainer and a Cessna Cherokee. The "school" was a room off the hangargarage.

The facility was tucked awayin a far corner of the CFB Chatham base. In those days, the security regime attactical air facilities focused more on the main runway and service areas. Theinstructors were active-duty pilots or navigators except for one individual(more details on him later).

This madefor a top-of-the-line learning experience. As it turned out, it also providedmany hours of life lessons as these seasoned veterans recounted theirexperiences in various combat aircraft. Sitting quietly in a corner andlistening to them exchange stories was a treat, each sometimes competing forthe stage.

Let mebriefly introduce you to some of these people. I have changed the names in theunlikely event that anyone still living should stumble upon their name in thisamateur's story.

GlennEnglish was the first person I met, and he eventually became my leadinstructor. Glenn was about forty years old, slightly overweight, with a fullhead of black hair. He had that confident, easy-going manner of someprofessionals, past the age of having to prove his rank or status. Among theaircraft Glenn had flown was the B-52 bomber during the height of the VietnamWar.

 He was one of several American pilotsstationed at the base on an exchange program. During dual flight traininghours, Glenn would occasionally talk of that experience. He described it asdoing "milk runs," not to diminish the intensity or havoc, but ratherto accentuate the routine. Targets and support aircraft were pre-assigned.Enemy anti-aircraft fire was usually okay, as the advanced technology of theday could draw fire to drones and other devices.

Theworkhorses were the F-4 Phantom jets used in air-to-air and ground support. Hedescribed the combination of defensive and offensive capacity as a blanketsurrounding the bomber crew.

I grewcomfortable talking with Glenn. There was never an air of superiority abouthim. His instruction was always clear and professional and, above all, calm. Ona quiet, sunny Sunday morning, I told him about my phobia and why I wanted tofly. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. I thought I had crossed aline, and he would give me a condescending pep talk.

"Doug,on every one of my flights in Vietnam, I was terrified. It wasn't the fear ofbeing shot down because we had secure cover. I began to think that eachflight would be my last. Every time I buckled myself in, I was sweatingheavily.

"It was a phobia. When Iadmitted it to myself and others, I started working with some good people. Theytaught me to trust, understand the fear, and finally manage it. I know what andhow you feel, Doug."

Glenn's honesty andwillingness to share are gifts I still cherish.

JimSeeling was a navigator on the Voodoo. He showed the professional confidencedemonstrated in an Armed Forces recruiting video. He was about 6ft 1", 210lbs. He had over twenty-five years of experience flying jets, and no doubt hecould still fit into his first flight suit. Jim was probably in one of thosevoodoos movies I watched, flying over my parents' home when I was twelve. He and theCF101 were near the end of their careers.

Our timesin the cockpit were exceptional learning experiences. Jim showed me maneuversby the book and often added alternative actions in case something didn't go asplanned. He was safety conscious and drilled that constantly.

We did"short field" take-offs and landings one charming Septemberafternoon. He had selected a farmer's field with a line of trees at the end.Jim did a few setups and then handed control over to me. He talked me throughthe procedure in his uniquely laconic style. I began the maneuver, levellingnicely over the field, then started climbing. Jim's voice began to have an edgeas we neared the trees at the end. It went up several decibels when we were notrising fast enough for him. His feet lifted off the floor just as we clearedthe grove. He looked ahead momentarily, took off his ball cap and exclaimed,"That was interesting, Doug." That was Jim at his most excited.

Flightswith Glenn and Jim always followed the private pilot manual with relaxedprofessionalism. My skill level and confidence increased with each lesson.

The thirdinstructor in the group was King. I will use only his first name, as some olderlocal readers may recall him. King was a colourful, outgoing businessman whoowned his own Cessna. He had an instructor's rating and, from time to time,would help teach students. I heard stories of King as a pilot and tried toavoid having him in the left seat.

One eventthat caused a sensation in the community involved him and two friends enjoyinga leisurely Sunday afternoon flight in the Miramichi region. One of his buddiesbet King he wouldn't fly under the bridge connecting Chatham to the north sideof the Miramichi River. Anyone familiar with Ministry of Transport (MOT)regulations or common sense would understand the danger of such a maneuver. Butneither of these was much concern to King, as he readily agreed to the wagerand collected the one hundred dollars. A six-month suspension of his licencecooled King's flair for excitement only slightly.

Our pathscrossed at the training center a few months after his instructor permit wasreinstated. I was scheduled to do "touch and goes" at the airfieldwith Glenn. These procedures train the pilot to safely take off and land at anairport. It was a beautiful, warm October afternoon when I strolled into thehangar while building self-confidence.

King wasbehind the counter where Glenn should have been. He announced that Glenn hadtaken the afternoon off and that he, King, would be instructing that day. Heprobably detected my lack of enthusiasm, but King was not to be put off.

He took my logbook and beganlooking through it. "Okay, no problem, Doug, let's do a fewof the touch and goes, and we will see after that."

I wanted an excuse to getaway, but was coming up empty.

We tookoff, and I performed the scheduled exercise without problems when Kingannounced a program change.

"Let's do some stalls and spins, Doug."

"No, King, that's lesson eight; I'm only on lesson three."

With my knuckles tighteningon the yoke (control column), he replied, "Don't worry,Doug, it's easy. I will walk you through."

Before Icould say anything, King had the mike and told the control tower we wouldoperate in an area south of the field (and south of my comfort level). I swungus over to the assigned area. King showed me the procedure.

"Doug, there's nothing to this; you just watch me, andthen you do one … so, you reduce your power, then pull back on the yoke. Feeler shaking Doug? Okay, now you drop the nose. Let 'er drop a while; now, pullher up. There, see, Doug, nothin' to it!"

Now, youmay be reading this instruction and thinking that the maneuver soundsstraightforward. What was my concern? There would be no problem, but for twovariables that I could not control. The first was my fear of sudden airplanemoves. The second was my lack of trust in the nut behind the wheel. Suddenly, Ifelt like the young boy being locked in the meat freezer. Hoping I could hurrythrough and return to the airfield, I agreed to do the maneuver.

WithKing's annoyingly lilting voice playing in the background, I followed hisdirections. The plane performed precisely as he said and wasn't as terrifyingas I feared.

King encouraged me."Okay, Doug, that was good. Now let's go on to spins! It's the same asdoing a stall, except you bank the plane to one side by hitting the left rudderpedal and then the right to level er out. Okay, now, Doug, you watch me. Away wego!"

Where thefirst maneuver had a predictable smoothness, in this one, I felt like I wasbeing pitched out of the plane while we were headed toward the ground. It allhappened within a few seconds; we returned to level flight. I was not likingthis at all.

King casually said, "Seewhat I mean, Doug? Easy, eh?"

"No, King, it wasn't easy. It makes me feel like I'm goingto puke."

My tone-deaf instructorcontinued.

"Don't worry about that, Doug. Okay, now let's try ittogether. You follow through on the yoke and pedals with me. Okay,I'll set er up now, reduce power, pull the yoke back …"

I stopped hearing his voice.

Mostdictionaries describe the state of shock as having two categories. The first is"experiencing a sudden upsetting feeling because of somethingunexpected." I could check that box. The second is when a person's hearingis compromised. King was going through motions he had been trained andconditioned to complete. This was my first experience. My mind, now reduced toa primordial function, determined we were about to crash.

My brain directed my leftfoot to step hard and stay on the left rudder pedal.

"DOUG, DOUG, HIT THE RIGHT PEDAL!"

(I didn't include a fewcolourful adjectives King added.)

Much toour mutual relief, King completed his instruction of Lesson Eight in thePrivate Pilot Guide by hitting my left leg several times and bringing me out ofthe stupor.

When Irecovered my situational awareness, I was determined that one thing wouldhappen: King and I would never again be within two feet of each other. Twoweeks later, Glenn announced that King had surrendered his instructor rating,saying he no longer enjoyed the challenge. I smiled to myself with quietsatisfaction.

Airfieldsare configured in a similar pattern designed to allow an airplane to enter anddepart safely and efficiently. The pattern a plane follows is called a circuit.The air traffic controllers in the tower are the police of the air. They managethe traffic in the circuit. The reality and significance were evident on acloudy, cold November morning. I was setting up for a landing at about 60mph.

A callfrom the tower sharpened my focus.

"LRC (the plane's callletters), turn right base now and clear the area. We have a Voodoo on emergency10 miles out."

ATC (AirTraffic Control) is not known for making small talk, for a good reason. I wasbeing told to get the heck out of the way now!

In the time it took me toexit the circuit, a gray blur shot past with smoke trailing from its rightengine. The shoot deployed as it landed. Fire engines and an ambulance chasedit down the runway.

Afterthings had calmed down, I finished my lesson and landed. Jim was tinkering withthe Cessna (ZTN) when I came in to log my time. I asked what had happened.

            In Jim's terse style, he reached for a wrench and said theplane had an engine fire. "That's a big deal," I said.

Jim responded without lookingup, "Only if you don't have a second engine."

Later thatsame week, I had my chat with the control tower. Once again, I was practicingin the circuit at about 1,200 ft. The weather was partly sunny, with a few snowshowers and light winds.

My training program followedVisual Flight Rules (VFR), unlike the more complex Instrument Flight Rules(IFR). VFR requires that you always have clear visual conditions outside youraircraft. IFR requires you to rely on flight instruments, allowing you to flythrough and above clouds.

By thispoint in my training, I had accumulated 30 solo hours. I was comfortable withthe routine of take-offs, landings and some maneuvers. I even conquered stallsand spins despite the debacle a month earlier with King.

I had justtaken off and was over the Miramichi River when I spotted a line of clouds atflight level. I followed the band and came parallel to the airport runway. As Istated earlier, my training was strictly VFR.

But mycuriosity and overconfidence worked to draw me into a cloud. It was one ofthose giant, fluffy marshmallows you often see against the bright blue sky. Iwas in and out in the blink of an eye, "no harm, no foul" until Irealized snow was inside my plane! LRC (Lima Romeo Charlie) was awell-maintained but older aircraft.

Like manyolder things, it had a few quirks. In this case, it was a door handle thatsometimes didn't quite catch. It was rarely an issue until it became an issue,like now. A vacuum had been created with the door partially open, drawingmoisture from the cloud into the cockpit as snow.

 My first reaction was more curiosity thanconcern. The warmth in the cabin was melting most of the snow almost as soon asit entered. However, the ever-alert folks in the tower noticed my plane'sattitude (level or pitching up or down) change as I was momentarily occupiedbrushing snow off the instrument panel.

The conversation ran likethis: "LRC, are you having a problem with your aircraft?

Wiping the snow off myinstrument panel, I responded casually, "No, I just have a bit of snow inthe cockpit."

"LRC, Repeat,please."

"Yes, err, my passengerdoor was open a bit, and snow came in."

"RC, are you declaringan emergency?"

Was it laughter I was hearingbehind the voice? As students, Jim (the instructor and school owner) told us tocall an emergency if we were sure it was an emergency.

Theincident and commotion with the Voodoo the week before had made a clearimpression on me. And now, the thought of Jim looking to me for reimbursementon emergency equipment deployment made a more significant impression. Iresponded, "No, the situation is under control. Thankyou."

"Rogerthat LRC. When you land, please call me. The number is posted on the wall atyour hangar."

Another thing we learned asstudents is that when ATC asks you to call them, it isn't to invite you for acoffee. When I landed and contacted the tower, the voice on the other end wasstraining to be serious as he told me the importance of airplane maintenanceand flight safety. I agreed and thanked him for his time.

At hisrequest, I handed the sweat-coated receiver to Jim. They had a brief animatedconversation. Jim sighed deeply, looked at me, and shook his head. The door wasfixed the next time I went out.

The day ofmy solo "cross country" check ride was one of those rare lateNovember days that felt more like September. The conditions were VISCU(Visibility and Ceiling Unlimited). The night before, I had plotted my trip. Itwould take me from CFB Chatham (YCH) to Fredericton (YFC), a brief stop to check in, and then it was over to Moncton (YQM), followed by a return home.

Thatmorning, I reviewed my plan with Glenn, adjusting for the current temperatureand the light wind at the three locations. After a careful "walkaround" the aircraft, including a fuel check, Glenn casually bid me a goodflight. I taxied out to the runway and received clearance for takeoff.

I wascomfortable flying solo in the circuit and designated areas. I had completedthe dual "cross-country" check ride with Jim. He had signed off,declaring it a smooth flight.

This wasdifferent. I was on my own, flying solo cross country. I got to cruisingaltitude, powered back and set the plane on course; there was little traffic.The view was unbelievable. Being able to look in any direction for twenty-fivemiles gives one a sense of solitude, yet feeling part of something much moresignificant. The flight went well, with a slight hiccup as I drifted slightlyoff course, but a quick check with Fredericton control set me back on track.

As I wasflying over the Kouchibouguac National Park on the final leg, I looked to myright at the Northumberland Strait. The effect of the sun on the water was tocreate a carpet of shimmering diamonds that extended to Prince Edward Island. Ihad come a long way from that boy in a storm watching in awe at the voodoolanding. Reflecting on how small my plane and I were in this magnificent scene,I became more aware of how insignificant we all are.

After Igot my pilot's license, I flew very little, eventually letting it lapse. It mayhave been like the mountaineer, having scaled the summit, has little interestin repeating it. It may also have been the enormous cost of renting, insuringand fueling a plane. I did, however, meet and fly with a new friend.

Bob Heathwas doing a courier run around the province and asked me to join him. Bobpersonified the independent contract pilot who flew on demand. His laid-backview of life was a break from my perspective on the career-focused"hamster wheel." We spent many hours passing the night sky. Boblater moved to take on a job in Inuvik, NWT.

On a quietSunday morning in January 2013, while in a Tim Hortons drive-thru, I listenedto a news broadcast detailing the death of Bob and two other pilots. They hadbeen flying a medical mission in Antarctica when their plane, caught in awhiteout, crashed with no survivors. The following month, I read of a churchservice in his honour. The crowd heard many stories of this man's generous andgenuine nature, perfectly describing the kind, humble man I was honoured toknow.

I havebeen fortunate to meet some wonderful people whose paths I might not haveotherwise crossed. Learning to fly was one of these occasions. I worked on my fearsand experienced some absolute joy in doing it.