Shutterspeed: Citabria

"Let's go."

Click here to see the Citabria Air-to-Air Gallery

Despite my last name, I count myself amongst the ranks of those who don't know that much about Norse Mythology (I've also never tried Lutefisk). Consequently, I didn't know much about Loki, one of the gods the Vikings used to sit around coastal campfires and tell stories about while the village they'd just plundered burned in the distance. Loki is well known for his mischievous antics and is one of the gods which the tricky Vikings probably identified closely with while casually marauding. All of this discussion about this particular deity is to illustrate the following: Loki is a most ironic name to apply to an airplane with as much integrity as the timeless Citabria.

"Loki" is a 7KCAB Citabria belonging to Marijke Unger. Marijke is like a proud parent to the airplane and treats Loki as though he has his own mischievous personality. Most pilots assign similar traits to airplanes they fly. I've known airplanes which have been lazy, gentle, steadfast, energetic, schizophrenic, and near suicidal. The Champ has all of the qualities you'll find in old friends; she's honest, stable, and dependable, even if it's not always the most exciting of airplanes. The Citabria is the Champ's younger and more athletic sibling. Both sharing lineage back to the near-comical Aeronca C-2, the Citabria is a more modern incarnation of the Champ, straightening out a few lines, adding more horsepower, and the ability to fly upside down should the desire arise. It has a "Let's go" attitude. It is also the plane I learned to fly in and one I have some of my most enduring memories trying to master the tailwheel at the controls of a Citabria. Finally shooting a Citabria air-to-air has been a long time coming.

My photo pilot for this flight was Doedo Schipper. Doedo and his wife Gail fly an exceptional Bucker Jungmann and they're both well-versed in rag-wing taildraggers. We met up on a recent summer evening in Longmont where Marijke houses Loki and decided to work the foothills. The light was questionable with lots of scattered cumulus blocking the sun in the immediate vicinity, but it looked as though there would be options to the north. I sat in the front of the Champ with Doedo flying from the rear. We departed first and turned to the north, paralleling the hogback ridges where the Great Plains meet the Rocky Mountains. Marijke and Loki quickly caught up to us, the Citabria's 150 horse Lycoming and generally cleaner airframe yielding a higher speed than the Champ. The light remained a no-go as the clouds blocked the sun for miles. A few tempting patches of golden evening speckled the plains, but they were the type that would mischievously lure the flight towards them, only to vanish upon arrival. Such areas are to be avoided. Carter Lake, a favorite reservoir to shoot over, was bathed in shadow. To the north, there was hope. A broad canyon between two hogbacks was reflecting the golden evening light. "Let's go there," I told Doedo as I opened up the Champ's door and got ready to shoot.

Searching out the light

As we neared the light, I directed Marijke into position as Doedo relayed my commands over the radio. Altitude often allows airplanes to be lit in areas where the ground below is in shadow, and that is what happened as we approached our canyon. Loki's paint began to glow as we reached the first rays of sunlight. The relatively subdued evening light compared to the harsher morning light makes for more optimum conditions to shoot pure white airplanes like Loki. White will often range from a creme color to brilliant gold. These colors over a dark background make for impressive contrast.

Contrast

Before long, the background emerged from darkness and we were flying up the canyon awash in the brilliant evening. I positioned Marijke in several angles as we flew up the canyon along its east side. Doedo was conscious of our position and the demands of flying in relative proximity to the surrounding rocks. I would make a direction to which he would reply unable due to terrain. It's good to have somebody watching over things as my situational awareness is limited to the viewfinder at these times.

The Citabria looked fantastic over the mountainous terrain. Nearly all of my time in the Citabria has been over the Coastal Plain of Texas. Despite the change of scenery, I couldn't help but be taken back to those formative years of my flying while shooting the Citabria over Colorado. Loki is a joyful looking airplane, a picture of confidence and ability. It's hard not to smile while looking at a Citabria flying along the ridge lines on such a beautiful evening. I learned all of the basics in this airplane. It represents my first solo, my first landing on grass, and my first spin. I learned so much about the craft of flying with my instructor Melanie repeating things so many times in my headset that I still hear them today.

"Feel the sink, pull. Feel the sink, pull."

"Look at the trees, look at the trees, hold it off... hold it off... now stick forward."

Beyond learning the mechanics of flying, the Citabria with its excellent visibility taught me to look outside, to see the world from the air. The lack of instruments compared to other trainers meant the student would often find himself gazing out as the countryside passed by. The Citabria taught me to love flying.

Turning in the canyon

We completed a course reversal near the end of the canyon. The canyon was easily wide enough to maneuver in without drama. In the turn I slowed the shutter down to get a full prop arc and hopefully capture some background motion which is apparent when turning with the subject plane on the outside. Flying back south, we positioned Loki for the tricky silhouette shot. Marijke had to fish a bit, but once she was there, she did a perfect job of keeping her shadow on the Champ. I'd never gotten a silhouette so close to terrain and the individual Ponderosa pines visible on the ridge lines added a nice bit of texture.

Back-lit

A beautiful and colossal thunderstorm was plundering the plains far to the southeast. Its towering structure was lit in pinks and peaches as it matured to its greatest height in the last of the day's heat. Gargantuan plains thunderstorms are different than the coastal Texas thunderstorms that dotted the skies when I was learning to fly. Summer sea breezes would bring moist air ashore which was warmed over the flat coastal plain. As the air would rise and condense, patchy isolated thunderstorms formed. They were easy to fly around and seldom were a problem, but they were to be avoided. One hot afternoon, I remember looking up through the Citabria's skylight at one of these localized thunderstorms towering above me and saw the unmistakable profile of a DC-3 fly directly into the top of the anvil and disappear. I had just read Ernie Gann's first account of flying into a thunderstorm and if I've ever seen a Flying Dutchman, that was it.

Thunderstorm Backdrop

We positioned Marijke for an outside turn with the intention of shooting Loki banked in front of the cumulonimbus beast which was raising hell sixty miles to the southeast. Loki's namesake would approve. I suppose Thor would as well. After two orbits in a steep bank which I requested, I had lots of quality material in the last of the day's light and for the first time felt that I was just a bit queezy after spending so much time focusing on my camera during some g-inducing maneuvers. I found this unusual as I haven't felt this feeling except occasionally during repeated aerobatics. With the sun below the horizon, it was a good time to head back to Longmont. Marijke couldn't resist making a joyful pass by some friends who live on their own airstrip and we followed before heading back to Longmont. Doedo is a pro at landing from the rear, seeing as that is standard practice in a Bucker and he set the Champ down with authority.

We put Loki away in his hangar and discussed the flight a bit. We were all happy with the quality and quantity of work. My queeziness began to wane and I decided to get back home before it got too dark. Doedo propped me, I turned on the lights and taxied out, pausing on the runway to take some photos of the runway lights before departing. On the flight home, the thunderstorm we'd shot Loki in front of was dying a dramatic death as it no longer had the radiant heat from the earth to fuel it. In the darkness, it's lightning flickered constantly within its cloudy towers. It was good to know the storm was much further away than my destination and moving away.

Runway Lights

Mischievous? Full of trickery? Perhaps when compared to a Piper Cherokee, but I would contend that it's one of the most likeable airplanes out there. Perhaps it's mischievous when it approaches out of the sun and makes a quick pass overhead before you know what happened. It definitely has a few tricks up its sleeve, being competent as a trainer, aerobat, and back-country plane. However you see it, the Citabria is one of my all-time favorites and I'll always carry what it taught me in any airplane I fly.

Loki sneaking underneath us

Solitude

I recently rediscovered this piece that I wrote almost six years ago after a remarkable flight that I still recall vividly. I added only minimal edits to the original version before posting.

I awoke unprompted at 2 am and the full moon was lighting up everything out my window. The summer night was beckoning. A few quick calls to area ASOS numbers revealed ideal weather conditions, clear skies, no wind, good visibility and a descent temp/dewpoint spread. I fired up the Blazer and headed out to the airport. An aerodrome at night is always a beautiful peaceful place, the runway lights and rotating beacon radiating a meditative atmosphere. I pulled the Champ out of her hangar and completed a preflight inspection. All in order. Four shots of primer, three prop turns, contact, fire! The little Continental eased into idle and the exhaust stacks rhythmically breathing life into the damp stillness of the night. I hopped in, lights on, breaks off, taxi out, the panel glowing red in the cockpit flood light. I chose and intersection departure after a quick run-up and flew off into the night, southeast bound. The air was absolutely still and the moonlight was spectacular. Each bend in the Colorado river was plainly visible and even the furrows in the cotton fields were clear enough to be counted. Ahead the orange lights of Bay City glowed steadily, unlike the twinkling of lights out west. Passing the small city, I noticed the traffic signals were all flashing yellow and red, no need for delays in the heart of the night. Only a few sets of headlights and taillights prowled about the town. Off ahead, the lights of Matagorda marked where the ocean meets the continent. I turned to 123.8, Houston Approach, to hear what other airborn souls were up to this night. "Fed Ex 449 heavy, expect ILS or visual runway 26 left, descend and maintain 6000," a woman said with a thick East Texas accent. Soon I was able to clearly see a widely scattered layer of small cumulus clouds at about 2000 feet just inland from the Gulf. They were metalic silver orbs hovering above a moonwashed bay.

"Fed Ex 449 Heavy, contact Bush tower, good morning."

"Over to tower, good morning."

I danced just over the top of the silver clouds and began a steep descent as soon as I cleared them. I held my attitude to about 300 feet, right over the beach, then leveled. No need to get too low at night, even with the moonlight. I could see each breaker, every granite boulder in the jetties, and out off shore there was a virtual city of oil and gas platforms. The moon plainly lit up the rafts of sargasum washed ashore the entire length of the beach, so common in a during the Texas summer. I reversed course by gently turning out over the Gulf and then back over the shore. I circled the Matagorta jetties a time or two, noticing the green and red markers on either side of the inlet, then climbing and turining inland, I headed back up the river. Before I got to Bay City, I could clearly see the Wharton airport beacon, beckoning me back home. Off with the little Garmin, I don't need you any more. Never did really. Thinking. How is it that I am the only apparent viewer of this spectacle? All of the beauty of any of the great National Parks was before me and why was I the only soul taking it in and why would most call me crazy for being here, held aloft on my magic carpet of steel, wood, and fabric?

Inbound to Wharton, landing light on. I made standard calls on the radio for a straight in for 32, though I was willing to bet there was no other soul on the frequency. My transmissions were broadcast into the night, across the region reaching nobody's ears. Good wheel landing for having not flown at night in a few months. Before putting the aircraft away, I set up my old Olympus on a tripod and took some time exposures of the Champ at night in the moonlight and runway lights. I don't remember much about the drive home, but as I pulled into Richmond off US 59, the eastern sky was getting pale and the stars were all in the west. The Houston radio stations were starting up their loud-mouth car-commercial morning shows and a city was preparing for a day of work.

Flying and Freedom From Unimportant Things

Imagine being free from all of the most destructive thoughts and feelings humans are susceptible to. Imagine a place where insecurities, anxiety, fear, pain, self-doubt, and guilt are removed. This is how the world is to one who has embraced the sky as home, as a comfortable and proper place to be. When flying, the immediacy of the situation demands the pilot’s fullest of attention and there is no room for any of these cancerous thoughts. This is not to say that the pilot is constantly on edge and at his wit’s end. There are occasional introspective and meditative moments for the mind to wander somewhat while aloft, but due to the unique perspective that flight offers, these times are overwhelmingly positive. It isn’t that there is no time to focus on anything but the mechanics of flying and navigating, but that flying produces an environment which engages the mind and spirit in such a way that it has no room for the negative.

When flying a precision maneuver or a tricky cross-wind approach and landing, the mind is busy making innumerable and often subconscious calculations. The motor skills are constantly making small corrections. The eyes, hands, and feet are in symphonic coordination. The successful outcome of the maneuver or landing depends on high levels of concentration, planning, and action. There is no room for destructive thoughts


In another situation, the pilot might find himself in cruise flight on a calm evening over beautiful scenery as sunset nears. The workload is much less, but the mind must still be engaged in keeping a constant heading and altitude or performing other cockpit chores, but the mind will also find itself studying the world below or the sky above. The wonders of the earth, the progress of mankind, or the incredible vastness of the unknown inevitably creep into the pilot’s mind at these times. Once again, there is no room for destructive thoughts.


In both types of circumstances, the mind is much more active than in most ordinary situations, but the spirit is also more alive than it normally is. Completion of a maneuver to perfection lifts the spirit to great heights. Nailing that crosswind landing is like a spiritual high-five, and the peaceful sunset patrol produces a terrific sense of self-exaltation. When one’s inner self is in such a healthy state, it too has no room for destructive emotions.

The FAA lists several hazardous attitudes that are very real and can lead to very poor judgement. Two of them are anti-authority and invulnerability. All pilots encounter these attitudes from time to time and must learn to effectively deal with them. Rule books are written in the blood of others and are printed for a reason. No man is ever invulnerable to the unforgiving sky. On a higher level however, anti-authority and invulnerability are two blessings that flying brings. When flying, there is no greater authority than the pilot-in-command. His decision is final. Nobody is in control of his destiny save himself and spiritually, this is a striking and empowering revelation. Even when there are others in the airplane, there is solitude to be found in the stick and rudder. Being removed from reliance on all others, if even on a short flight, bolsters the individual. There is no authority over a pilot’s destiny save his own. Additionally, because of the very real vulnerability of the pilot’s person, the spirit must takes on an almost impervious armor. Only physical hazards exist in the sky. There is no pain or suffering. Spiritual invulnerability is something seldom found in safety of the ground.

St Exupery is known for saying, "I fly because it releases my mind from the tyranny of petty things." Indeed, only the truly important elements of one's being stand out when embracing the sky. Flying is a triumph over the worst and a celebration of the best. It is an activity that fortifies the mind and spirit to do battle in the day-to-day conflicts which can be so draining. An exceptional flight can set the individual right for long after the airplane has been put in the hangar.