Aviation articles by Garth Wallace

Emmy-Lou was the nickname of an Aeronca Chief tied down at a flying school where I worked early in my instructing career. It was owned by Able, a young computer technician who had moved to area from northern Ontario.

One day over coffee Able told me that his dad had acquired the Chief from a neighbour in exchange for a pickup truck and two heifers. I believed him. I didn’t know cows, but the Chief looked like a two-heifer airplane. The fabric was sagging in places, oil streaks traced the curve of the airflow along the fuselage sides and the airplane sat lopsided in its tie-down.

The little two-seater had a small engine and a large wing. I imagined free-spirited Able riding her lazily through the air on a warm summer day with the engine chugging and the fabric flapping while he enjoyed a slow view of the county side.

"Why do you call her Emmy-Lou?" I asked.
Able grinned. "She’s named after the calves."

On the first nice weekend of the spring, Able arrived at the airport with his girlfriend. They parked their car beside the Chief, turned up the radio, pulled out some cleaning supplies and attacked the winter grime on Emmy-Lou. Their work was interspersed with water fights and breaks for hugs. It was a scene I liked to see. It represented a fun part of sport aviation.

The couple pulled the Chief from its tie-down when they were done. The little airplane looked much happier clean. I watched as Able’s girlfriend hopped into the right side. The young pilot hand-started the engine by flipping the propeller and then climbed into the left seat. He added power and the Chief dog-tracked on its uneven landing gear out to the runway.

I was busy with students and didn’t think of the pair again until I returned from my last flight. The Chief was back in its spot. Able and his girlfriend were relaxing in the lounge.
"Did you have a good flight?" I asked.
"Great," Able responded enthusiastically. "It was good to get back up there but I felt a little rusty. I was thinking I should take some lessons."
"Do you want me to shoot a few landings with you?"
"Yah, whatever it takes to get a licence."
"You don’t have a pilot licence?" I asked in a rising voice.
"Nope," he answered casually. "I flew with my neighbour Mert for a few minutes when we traded for the airplane. He showed me some things but he wasn’t very good. I did much better on my own."
"How long ago?" I asked, wondering how he had stayed alive.
"Two years," he replied.

It must have been a scary two years, I thought to myself. "Well, the minimum you would have to do is 35 hours flying for a Private Pilot Licence including at least 12 hours of dual flight instruction," I said. "Then there is a flight test and a written exam. Are you available for our ground school on Monday nights?"
"Sure, I could be," he said shrugged. "I guess I should have done this two years ago."

I nodded an affirmative. "I’ll give you the name of a doctor who is a designated examiner for pilots so you can arrange a medical."
"I’ve never been sick in my life," he offered.
"Good, then you’ll have no trouble passing the medical exam."

My next concern was the Chief’s mechanical condition. If Able had been flying without a licence, it was probably the same for the airplane.
"Has Emmy-Lou been inspected by a mechanic?"
"No, I do my own maintenance," he replied, "I even covered her with new fabric myself."
"Well, it’s a government requirement to have an airplane inspected by a certified engineer at least once a year. Would you mind if our mechanic takes a look at her?"
I didn’t mention that I wouldn’t fly with him if he objected.
"No problem," he said, a little less cheerfully. "I’d appreciate a call if he finds anything major."
"Of course," I replied. "Did you happen to register the aircraft with Transport Canada when you purchased it?"
"No." He frowned.
"It’s a small detail," I lied.

"Anything else?" he asked, reading the expectant look on my face.
"Just one," I said, relieved he had asked. "We’ll have to arrange for insurance."
"Well, my Dad always said, ‘If you break your toys, then you fix them or do without.’ Is it a problem?"
"We just need liability insurance," I answered. "You can sign a waiver for the airplane coverage that says you won’t hold me responsible if we wreck your airplane and it’s my fault."
"I guess I can do that."

We made a tentative booking for a flying lesson the following week but I honestly expected our mechanic to end Able’s aviating. I figured he’d condemn the airplane’s fabric or engine, or both. Either would require repairs beyond Emmy-Lou’s value.

I misjudged our mechanic’s rural approach to airworthiness. That Monday he came into the office to deliver the verdict on Emmy-Lou’s condition.
"She’s fine," he declared.
I waited. He didn’t offer any more details.
"The fabric’s fine?" I asked.
"Yup."
"What about the sags?"
"Sags are fine," he answered, giving me one of his sideways looks. "There’s no damage underneath. The steel tubing is sound and rust free. The fabric is sagging because it wasn’t put on right. That’s a problem at high Mach, but in that airplane we don’t worry about the sound barrier."
"How about the oil leaks?" I asked.
"Fixed. I replaced rocker cover gaskets."
"Compression?"
"What compression? It’s a 65-horsepower engine. You get enough power to turn the propeller and that’s all. There is no afterburner."
He sounded impatient but I knew he enjoyed lecturing pilots. "It’s an airplane to fly, not drive. It’ll be good for you. I fixed the landing gear so it doesn’t limp anymore."
That was it. Emmy-Lou had passed her annual inspection.

I used our first lesson to ease Able through the paperwork pile that I had prepared for him. If he went back to the cheaper and less complicated sport of flying illegally, this would be the time. I went slowly.
He stuck with me until he realized that he was running out of cheques and we weren’t going flying. I told him if he and I were going to flying Emmy-Lou legally and safely, there was no turning back, starting today. He groaned but agreed.

We finally did our first lesson weeks later. I followed Able around his pre-flight inspection. It gave me a chance to see the Chief close up. It was an education. Able checked the engine oil level and drained a sample of gas from the little bowl under the fuel tank in the nose. That was it.
I frowned. "There is more to look for," I announced. "Let’s start at the nose and I’ll show you a complete inspection. First, check the propeller for nicks," I said, looking at Able and running my hand along the leading edge of the prop. I stopped. I had flown aluminum propellers. The Chief’s prop was wooden. I was feeling the solid brass covering on its leading edge. It would have taken a collision with an iron bridge to nick it.
"Seems fine," I said and continued. "When you’re checking the oil, take a minute to look at the rest of the engine. You may find fuel or oil leaks, or a bird’s nest."
Our mechanic had sprayed Emmy-Lou’s engine with Varsol. It was perfectly clean. Able nodded politely.
"Check the tires for nicks, cuts and tread," I said, bending over the right wheel. There were no nicks, cuts or tread. The fat little tires were as smooth as a bowling ball. I looked at Able. "Maybe we should talk about new tires soon," I said. "We need tread for grip during crosswind takeoffs and landings, especially in the rain."
Part of the Chief’s control cables ran outside the fabric. I showed Able how to check their connections. "Give the cables a shake too so you can tell if they’re tight," I said, jiggling a rudder cable. "These are a bit stretched," I declared, hearing the cable slap the fabric inside the fuselage. "The controls will be less responsive. I’ll talk to our mechanic later." Able gave me a quizzical look, but again nodded politely.
"Then have a general look at the fabric," I said, running my hands over the wrinkles. "Look for holes, cracks and tears." There were none.
I found the pitot tube sensor for the airspeed indicator and showed Able how to confirm it was not clogged.
I stood back and looked at Emmy-Lou. There was nothing else to check. There weren’t any more drains to drain, static sensors to check or alternator belt to deflect. There were no lights, no radio antennas, no flaps and no air vents.
"Well, I guess that’s it," I said. "Let’s go flying."

I climbed into the right seat. Able showed me how to hold the brakes while he hand-propped the engine. It started first try.
The Chief’s side-by-side seating was a tight squeeze for two guys. Sliding the windows open gave us more shoulder room. The instrument panel was stark. There were no radios, no switches and no circuit breakers, just dials for airspeed and altitude, a compass and an oil pressure gauge. A curved carpenter’s level served as a slip indicator.
Able taxied to the runway. My plan was to let him fly and watch his homebrewed methods to see what needed "un-teaching."
Able ran up the engine beside the runway and checked the dual ignition. There wasn’t much else to do before takeoff. Able checked seat belts tight, doors closed, gas on, trim set and controls free.
He looked around for other traffic and pulled onto the runway. When he applied full power, the onslaught of noise announced great things that never came. The main product of the Chief’s engine was sound. The airplane waddled slowly down the runway like a constipated duck.
The actual liftoff caught me by surprise. There was no fuss or bother; the Chief just floated into the air at an impossibly slow speed while the pithy motor struggled to make a breeze. The ground slid away in slow motion.

Able turned toward the practice area. The turn was perfect.
"Who taught you to apply rudder into the turns?" I yelled over the full throttle engine noise.
Able shrugged. He didn’t know what I was talking about. Apparently he had experimented with the controls until he found the right combination. Able was sharp enough and the Chief was slow enough that he had taught himself.
In one hour, this homemade pilot demonstrated proficiency in most of the Private Pilot Course. I learned more than he did. I discovered that the Chief was stuck in slow flight. The airspeed indicator never moved over 65 mph, except in a dive when it reached 68. I learned that sloppy control cables do not affect an airplane that offers only a grudging response at the best of times. Able showed me that in a glide, a Chief will climb in a thermal.
We returned to the airport. There was a light crosswind. Able landed into the wind across the runway with little forward ground speed. The bald tires barely turned. The landing could have been called short field, soft field, precautionary or normal. They were all the same.

My next problem was deciding what to do with Able for 11 more hours. The cross-country helped. The standard dual navigation lesson was a two-hour, triangular flight in a Cessna 152. It took us four and a half hours.
We took off from Runway 09 and turned on course. It was a clear day, so I made Able level off at 500 feet to make the trip more challenging. We crossed the airport boundary westbound.
"Sixty," Able shouted over the engine noise.
"Sixty what?" I shouted back.
"The ground speed is sixty miles per hour," he declared, "We’ll be at out first stop in one hour. Fuel burn will be three gallons."
"How do you know?" We hadn’t reached the first landmark.
"The runway is a mile long. It took us one minute to fly its length. That’s a mile a minute. Fuel burn is always three gallons an hour. That’s half a gallon every ten minutes." He was grinning.
At the first checkpoint, he recalculated the speed, time and fuel. The figures didn’t change.
We spent the rest of the trip sightseeing low to the ground. We waved at farmers, chased hawks and raced a few cars (and lost). We also talked ourselves hoarse. I discovered that Able was a down-to-earth, knowledgeable and friendly guy, who had taught himself how to fly.

Emmy-Lou grew on me like an old chair. She was a go-nowhere-in-a-hurry, fun airplane to fly. Over the next two weeks we burned off the remaining minimum dual hours doing spins, the only manoeuver Able hadn’t tried on his own. He loved them. So did Emmy-Lou.

Aviation has changed a great deal since I flew with Able over 30 years ago. Most of what Able was doing, or not doing, has been legalized or made easier since then and a lot more has been added, to aviation’s benefit.
Thanks to organizations such as COPA working with Transport Canada, pilots are now flying on self-declared medicals and on extended medical periods. Older aircraft like Emmy-Lou now qualify for the Owner-maintenance Aircraft Category. The Recreational Pilot Permit provides an easier and cheaper way to fly than the Private Pilot Licence.
If Able was tired of slow flight he may now buy, import and fly ex-military aircraft.
Thanks to private industry working with governments, Emmy-Lou can be equipped with electronics strapped to the pilot’s knees that rival the capability of the airline panels of the 1970s.
It is now easier to fly safer. There are more small aircraft than ever, more COPA Flights, more airports and more aviation information.

The value of heifers has not kept pace with the rising cost of Aeronca Chiefs but grassroots flying has been reinvented by ultralight and amateur-built aviation. These new industries are supplying pilots with modern ultralights and aircraft kits that will do everything that Emmy-Lou could and more, and less.

Don’t look back; you are now flying in the good old days.

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