No fear of flying

Last Saturday, late in the afternoon, I got a call from Magnus: would I like to go flying with him and a friend of ours who has a small airplane? Would I ever!  It didn’t take me any time at all to decide that the cucumbers I was just scrubbing to be pickled could wait until the next day; this was something I had been looking forward to all summer. 

We arrived at the Westlock airport at 6:30. It is, of course, not a very big affair, just a few rows of small planes parked in the field behind the hangars like cars in a very rural parking lot. A somewhat bigger plane from the Edmonton Sky Diving club just landed as we were meeting up with Georg, our friend. We walked over to his 1965 four-seater Beechcraft, its white body with the red stripe gleaming in the early evening sun.

Who would sit in the front beside the pilot? Magnus was the logical choice because he has the better camera and is the better photographer, but, the two men wondered, would I get sick in the back seat? Never having flown in a plane that small I had no idea, but was quite confident that I would be okay: seasickness is not a problem for me either, and this could not be so much worse, could it? In any case, there was no guarantee that Magnus would be less prone to motion sickness, and the pocket in the back of the front seat contained a quantity of air-sickness bags, some with the Air Canada logo. Everything was taken care of, and it would be fine.

Georg checked the oil and anything else he needed to check and we climbed in, using the wing as a stepping board. There was room enough in the back, even if my legs had been longer, and while the plane’s engine warmed up we buckled up. Looking around I was transported back to my parents’ first car, a dark grey 1962 Opel Rekord: the medium blue vinyl and quilted plush seats, the little ashtrays in the wall – the only thing missing was the slim white vase in its holder on the dash. After a few minutes of idling we slowly drove along the bumpy field to the paved landing strip. Georg got the okay to go ahead, and a moment later we were airborne. 

It was quite warm still, in the mid-twenties, and Georg told us that under these conditions we weren't rising very fast. I wouldn’t have noticed; I was absorbed with the view that became more amazing by the minute. I’ve always loved the minutes after take-off, the slow falling away of everything that normally surrounds us and defines our world.

We had about two hours to explore the greater Westlock area from the air, and of course certain points of reference were on the list of things we hoped to see: our farm, Magnus’ and Courtney’s farm, farms of friends, the Pembina River, the town of Westlock itself. 

First, however, we flew north, an area less familiar to us. Georg pointed out the Tawatinaw ski hill, our destination for cross-country skiing; from the air it was hard to believe that three lifts (admittedly short, but lifts nonetheless) provide downhill-thrill for countless youngsters from the area. It didn’t look like a hill at all, in fact. From there we followed the Tawatinaw River, a water course I had not even been aware of. It meandered in its narrow valley seamed by a wide expanse of forest, both deciduous and evergreen.  We dipped low to get a closer look at a group of maybe fifteen pelicans sitting on a hassock in the lazily moving little river, their orange feet and white feathers quite easy to make out.

Soon after we turned west. The landscape changed: fields appeared, some quite golden already, others still green, neat squares making up lively quilts, hemlines of roads, small lakes and ponds like tiny mirrors sown into the fabric. Some fields had been cut already, from a few others rose columns of dust: combines crawling along the swaths or harvesting standing barley. These were the exception, however; in general we are behind schedule because of the cool, wet summer. 

 
Magnus’ and Courtney’s farm appeared like a scene from Gulliver’s Travels. The grain trucks, noses poking out of the open shed, the yellow combine parked in front of the grain bins, unloading auger unfolded, seemed to be waiting to be pulled out and moved around by a child’s eager hands. Only a few more days until they, like us, will be busy in the surrounding fields. 

 It’s interesting to see all the blemishes, the drowned-out areas and the ones with flattened grain from the air, and it certainly heightens the anticipation: what will it be like this year? Will the combine or swather have trouble picking up the grain? Will some wet spots still be too soft to drive through? Will the yield loss due to wet conditions be considerable, or will it be negligible because the rest will make up for it? From the ground it certainly looks as if it should not be too bad, and it is hard to judge from above since we have no point of reference. 

The Pembina River

 Another change of direction, south toward our own fields and yard. By now the sun had slipped quite low already, and everything was basked in its warm light. Shadows were deepening and colours intensified: a perfect time to take it all in. Johann and Leo watched us dip and circle, once, twice, three times: opportunities to check on the garden, rows of beans and yellowing peas, the net covering red and white cabbage and my first attempt at growing brussel sprouts (unlikely to be repeated since the growing season is simply too short to produce anything much bigger than a marble), apple trees with their heavy burden, corn and the tangle of dill. Maya’s request to take pictures of her round pen and jumping course was fulfilled, too, before we turned north towards Westlock and ultimately back to the airport. 

We arrived in time to watch a chain of slowly descending parachuters land one by one like a smattering of colourful petals dropped from an invisible tree in the sky. Our brave little plane came to a halt in front of the fuel station to be replenished for the next outing. Georg and Magnus looked at me expectantly: ‘So did you feel sick at any point? Were you scared at all?’ Why would I? In fact, I found it quite exhilarating, especially diving lower, one wing pointed downward, the other toward the limitless expanse of sky above. I’d do it again any day, and I hope I will!