Aviation articles by Garth Wallace

How many horror stories have you heard about young bush pilots forced to fly overloaded, beat-up floatplanes in bad weather? That’s not how I remember bush flying.

Can’t see – don’t go
I sat in the air service office with three other pilots sipping coffee. I was remembering the warm bed I had crawled out of so recently. Our single-engine floatplanes sat tied in their slips, ready to go. We were waiting for the weather to improve. A mid-summer warm front was slowly pushing low cloud, light rain and fog across our area.
So far it had been a busy summer in Canada’s outdoor vacationland. The other pilots and I were savoring the respite granted by the fog even though it would compress the day’s charter flights into whatever hours we could get.
The experienced customers didn’t mind the delay. Their gear had already been loaded into the aircraft, a sign that they would eventually depart. In the meantime they started their holidays in the waterfront hangar, drinking coffee or beer and swapping fish stories.

The air service manager bustled into the office at eight o’clock and peered anxiously at the booking sheet. The twitchy little man knew his life would quickly become complicated by delays. He was a non-pilot who worried about being chewed out by the air service owner, a frequent occurrence.
The next scenario had been repeated several times since I had started working for the air service.

The manager approached the chief pilot, a crusty older man who was leaning on a windowsill rolling a cigarette. He was a veteran survivor of bad weather and worse management.
Twitchy was careful not to get too close to him. "Looks like a full schedule today, Chief," he said summoning an authoritative voice. "Are you going to get your first customer out soon?"
The Chief turned and pointed outside. "Well, I was just lookin’. Do ya see that ridge there across the bay?"
The manager peered out the window. "No, Chief, I don’t."
"Neither do I," the big man drawled. He flashed a tobacco-stained smile, "But when I do, then maybe we’ll fly. You watch the ridge and tell me when ya see it."

Our flights to the area’s fishing lodges and private camps were seldom long. We knew the terrain well enough to safely fly in minimal weather but we did have to see where we were going.
The ridge in question was the Chief’s weather indicator. It was about a mile away and was the highest point of land around. When the Chief could see over it, he knew we could clear obstructions for a wide radius. Risking passengers and aircraft for the sake of staying on schedule was not his idea of flying smart. He knew that it was difficult and expensive to replace a crashed airplane during the short float season, but his main concern was for the passengers and his pilots. He frequently reminded us of this with his woodsy sayings.
"When you can’t see where yer goin’, don’t go."
"Killin’ customers is bad for business."
"Remember, the pilot is the first one to the scene of the crash."

The manager had trouble accepting the Chief’s no-go decisions. He was afraid the owner would phone down from his house on the hill and demand to know why he wasn’t hearing aircraft engines.
Twitchy continued to push for an early departure. "How about loading the passengers and taxiing out, Chief? By the time you’re ready to take off, the weather might be good enough for a look see."
"I’ll tell ya what," the Chief answered. "If yer hankerin’ to see activity on the dock…"
"Yes," Twitchy replied hopefully.
"If ya wanna hear them engines runnin’…"
"I do!"
"Then load yerself some passengers and fire one up."
"Ahhh, Chief. That’s your job!"
"No, it’s my job to fly and when I do, the activity and engine noise come as necessary by-products."

Twitchy had given up trying to push the other pilots. We all had the same answer. "I go after the Chief goes."
The older pilot had trained us. "I take off first. If I don’t come back, then it’s OK."
We had an unwritten pact. The Chief wouldn’t fire us if we didn’t fly when he wouldn’t. He was the perfect mentor for pilots learning to survive in the bush.
So this morning, the manager hid in his office between trips to the window to peer into the gloom for a glimpse of the ridge.
The Chief sensed weather changes before he saw them. When Twitchy was not looking, he headed down to the Beaver at the dock. It was the signal for his passengers to mount up and for his pilots to be ready to go in half a coffee.

CHECK YOUR OIL?
The answer to good aircraft maintenance was having extra hangar staff. The air service payroll was supplemented by the maintenance crew do other work when they weren’t fixing airplanes. They painted school buses and repaired propane refrigerators. They hated it.
The result was a line-up of mechanics helping the pilots dock their aircraft on arrival.
"How’s she running? Did I hear a little roughness when you took off?"
They were happy as clams if they could oil a squeaky hinge, roll a rough-edged propeller or inspect something while the apprentices were refueling and the pilots were reloading. The regular inspections only took a few hours since most of the items had already been done.
It was no surprise that the Chief had something to say to his pilots about broken aircraft. "If ya damage an airplane, stay put. When ya don’t come back, I’ll come and get ya. If ya fly a damaged airplane don’t come back, ’cause you’re fired."

STEP OVER HERE MA’AM
A set of small cargo scales sat on the air service dock. They were rarely used but they were there.
The pilots and the regular customers were trained to a maximum passenger and cargo weight for each type of floatplane. The number was based on the pilot and half fuel already being on board. For the Cessna 180, it was 600 pounds. We all knew that the airplanes could carry more in a pinch but we never tried.
The key was that we were paid by the mile. Sometimes inexperienced customers booked a Cessna 180 to be flown into a fishing camp and then showed up with two fat passengers and a truckload of gear.
The pilots become good judges of standing weight.

Once I was looking at two Bubbas, four cases of beer, three boxes of groceries, a small outboard, a gas can, fishing tackle and two duffel bags standing on the dock beside a Cessna 180.
"We’ll have to take you in two trips," I said.
"No way," they protested. "We’re 200 pounds each and we brought 200 pounds of gear."
"Well, I wouldn’t want to cheat you. You can step on those scales over there or you can grab a case of beer and your fishing tackle and we’ll start the first flight."

As the Chief said, "A greedy bee makes more work and less honey. Two small loads make twice as much money as one overload."

Once our boss was booked to fly a heavy customer in a Super Cub to her cottage on an island. "We’ll have to take the Cessna ma’am," he said, escorting her down to the dock. "The maximum Cub load is 250 pounds."
He told us later that he was more concerned with getting her out of the Cub’s back seat than any extra weight. "I thought I might have to sideslip ’er out with the door open," he said.
The passenger knew how much more the Cessna cost per mile. "Well! I’ve never been so insulted in all my life!" she exclaimed.
The Chief held up her small valise. "Oh, it’s not you I’m insultin’, ma’am. I’ve never felt such a heavy overnight case. I bet if we put ya on those scales with this, the total would be over 250."
They took the Cessna.