To the Letter — Views From a Far Horizon

When does a circuit become a cross-country, or is it vice versa? It’s hard to tell sometimes at the Brampton Flying Club. A stranger approaching this field can be forgiven for wondering what is going on.

I can recall my first visit well; my radio was working that day, so I knew what runway was in use, but where was the traffic? Someone reported turning downwind, but I couldn’t see him. Peering through vibrating goggles and a bug-spattered windshield, I finally spotted a speck in the hazy summer sky — my goodness, is that him, I wondered. He must be two concessions from the field — have I got the right aircraft? Another aircraft reported turning base. I saw a flash of wings in an abrupt turn; good lad, got him, but he is No. 2 — where is No. 1? Ah, there he is, a mile back on final, down in the weeds on a graveyard approach, I thought to myself. Because this is a training field, among other things, one must expect anything.

I have often pondered the question of the cross-country circuit. WHY? It doesn’t seem to matter whether there is one aircraft or many in the circuit — it is always too wide. Are they taught this way? Surely this isn’t a cunning scheme to extract more flying time per pupil? Or maybe the lads are practising for the day when they will be 747 captains! Maybe they are using ground references, which is not a good idea at any time, but the Snelgrove Water Tower seems like a magnet, so maybe they are.

I know I come from a different era of flying and things always change, but some things are worth keeping. My elementary flying was from a circular grass field. Circuits were tight so that if the engine quit you could always turn into the field, landing always into wind or any space not littered with Tiger Moths doing the same thing. True, circuits were sometimes a shambles with parallel approaches and simultaneous landings, but we didn’t use much airspace for the number of aircraft flying. Later, with Harvards, it was easy — at the correct circuit height you just put the wingtip on the runway on downwind and you had the right distance for a proper turn onto base and final.

All of the above brings us to the present and the Brampton Flying Club. Here there is a mixture of different aircraft with different approach requirements. First of all, the high-wing Cessnas, etc., who can see all before and below them and nothing above, don’t seem to mind how long the final is, and fly long, stabilized airline approaches. Then we have the fast biplanes and low-wing monoplanes, whose requirements are probably similar to the slow replica fighters at the Great War Flying Museum, all of whose forward and downward visibility ranges from almost NIL to non-existent. They drop like rocks when the power is off and are best flown on a short-curved base and final for visibility and safety.

So here comes our boy in his high-wing Cessna who has turned onto final at the water tower, seeing all ahead below, a nice slow and gentle-powered descent, and he’s number one, or so he thinks. Hello, what is this? A scarlet triplane, the Red Baron reincarnated, turned in front; good job he is not behind — the guns might be real! However, the Fokker is down quickly and has cleared the runway. Better speed up your approach, lad, or the other verdammter Deutscher, the Baron’s wing man, might nip in front of you as well and really spoil your day!

This is of course fictitious, but next time some visiting biplane or even a local resident cuts you off on your five-mile final, instead of cursing the pilot, just be thankful you are not hearing the rumble of his aircraft engine above you because, believe me, if you can hear another engine above the noise of your own, it is too close and not by intent. The pilots can’t see you and you can’t see them, and you haven’t got long to live unless you do something very quickly.

Jerry Fotheringham,
Caledon East, Ontario