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.

Birds in Cages

Airplane hangars have an interesting effect. They seem to diminish the achievement of flight. An airplane in a hangar seems out of place when you consider that its function is to travel thousands of feet above earth at speeds faster than any creature in nature. From time to time I look at a familiar plane in a hangar and think of all of the adventures it has carried me through; early morning sunrises at 11,000 feet, moonlit flights low over silvery breakers just off the beach, wheeling down over canyon rims in redrock country, soaring over snow-capped peaks that would take days to climb, darting around cumulus canyons, spectacular evening air-to-air photo flights. All of these glorious moments were happening at over 100 miles per hour suspended in the sky by nothing but air pressure differential, often bathed triumphantly in sunlight. Any object in such a position should surely meet its end in a mass of twisted metal, yet here it sits, pristine, with a roof overhead underneath the same fluorescent lights that most people labor under grudgingly. Airplanes in a hangar give the impression of machines of potential, but aside from a few bugs on the wings and worn tires, they show virtually no sign of their past journeys through previously unattainable dimensions. An airplane wreck gives the undeniable impression that the machine was at one point careening through space. Airplanes resting quietly indoors show no such evidence. The most brilliant minds of men designed these masterpieces. Some of man's keenest reflexes are needed to fly them precisely. Buildings constructed by the modest labors of men house them anonymously.

Shutterspeed: Piper Comanche

People often ask me questions about how I compose air-to-air photos such as these. The Shutterspeed blog is meant to give some insights into the world of air-to-air photography. There is much more that goes into one of these flights than I could touch on here, but hopefully this will give an idea of some of the elements in creating these images.

SEE THE COMANCHE AIR-TO-AIR GALLERY HERE

Most of my time in the air has been in slow taildraggers. I learned to fly in a Citabria and I've been flying the Champ for seven years. Sure, I've spent plenty of time in Cessnas. As most pilots are, I'm familiar with the 172. I've gotten to know the 182 to a lesser extent. I've had stick time in RV's, but by and large, I'm accustomed to going slow. I've taken several multi-state cross-country flights in the Champ and they often aren't much faster than driving, though they're always an adventure. When the opportunity came to train for my commercial license in a Piper Comanche 250, I jumped on it, even though I didn't fully understand what a gem of an airplane I was about to be introduced to. I'd flown Cherokees in the past. The Comanche has the same basic shape as a Cherokee and as both aircraft are Pipers, I assumed the Comanche would handle and fly a bit like its newer brethren. I couldn't have been more wrong. The Cherokee family are generally stable, easy to fly airplanes, but I've never found them to be all that inspiring. The Comanche soars in comparison.

Confident

Charlie is my flight instructor. He taught me while I was pursuing my commercial license and he continues to teach me as I work toward my flight instructor certification. He's been flying this particular Comanche longer than I've been alive and is undeniably a master of the aircraft. Today, Mark would be flying me in the L-5 once again. Mark, Charlie, and I are all close and we've flown one other photo flight with Charlies Cessna.

Charlie has allowed me use of the Comanche from time to time and it is a true freedom machine. Each takeoff is more like a launch than a departure. I've loaded four people in the plane and taken off with near full fuel and its performance doesn't cease to inspire. I never thought I'd love a metal nose-wheel airplane like the Comanche, so when it came time to shoot it air-to-air, I wanted to do it right. I'm always looking for new aspects in my photography. I try to inject variety in each photo flight. I decided that the softer light of evening would compliment the powder-blue Comanche better than the more harsh light of morning. While the air over the foothills can often be rougher than the plains on a summer evening, we'd had a good stretch of clear, calm weather and I wanted to try their offerings of scenic backgrounds late in the day for a change. Shooting in the evenings has several advantages, not the least of which is that there is not a 3:08 wake-up. I drove to the airport after work and Charlie and Mark and I did some casual hangar flying as we waited for the sun to get lower. We pulled the planes out, but Mark and I departed first and headed east to do some quick aerials for a friend. Charlie and his wife Kathie departed in the Comanche and we met on the ground at Longmont. We knew flying in formation with dissimilar aircraft like the swift Comanche and the sedate Stinson would be a challenge, especially for Charlie. We briefed the flight as always and then started engines and taxied out for departure.

Once in the air, I dropped the windows and ran a took a few test shots. Mark guided us over toward the hogback ridges as Charlie maneuvered into position. The Comanche's three-bladed prop makes for a great speed brake when in low pitch, so it was relatively easy for Charlie to match our speed. We flew level along the hogbacks to establish our speeds and positions while still providing some interesting scenery for backdrops. I'd never seen the Comanche in the air and it is an absolute stunner. I've always found its angular lines, clean profile, and slender tapering of the fuselage to be reminiscent of a shark. Up here in the air, it seemed to glide as effortlessly as a mako through the deep. There was plenty of effort involved, however. Mark was positioning Charlie just so and we began a series of inside and outside turns and headed over a reservoir for some water backgrounds. Between the low power settings for the Comanche and the slight turbulence (a little goes a long way) Charlie was working hard. Mark was contending with a familiar area but unfamiliar lighting. The images are a picture of luxury; a couple flying their powerful airplane over the mountains, perhaps to a weekend getaway. In reality, I was hearing the gear horn squawking at times in the background when Charlie would make a radio transmission. Kathie was more concerned with the proximity to the rocks than what would be on the menu at the Chateau.

Flying along the ridges

I'd told Mark in the past not to spend much time over residential areas as they can ruin an otherwise perfect photo. I noticed through my viewfinder that we were over the town of Lyons. I mentioned the fact to him and asked if there was a better prospect for scenery nearby. "Hold on, this is gonna be worth it. Be ready for it." I didn't know what he might be referring to, but I took his word for it, not taking my glance off of my subject. In a few seconds, he began a right turn and we came around the corner of a dramatic sandstone ridge. Charlie was positioned perfectly as Mark put the ridge between the Comanche and the town of Lyons. In the brilliant evening light, the ridge was lit up like the redrock country of eastern Utah and the light blue of the airplane made for a spectacular contrast. We'd flown by the same location on previous morning flights when the entire area was in the shadow. It's amazing how one area can take on such vastly different characteristics with the light coming from the opposite direction.

The "around the corner" shot

As the sun got lower, we gained some altitude and tried several sun-blocking silhouettes, one of the more challenging tasks of a photo flight. We also did some distance shots, placing the Comanche further away from us and putting much more sky in the picture. In a steep bank a few hundred yards out, the profile of the Comanche looked even more aggressive and shark-like.

Mako Shark

When there was not enough light left to work with, we headed home. Charlie broke formation and powered up. As if propelled by a few quick thrusts of its tail, the Comanche sped past us and and vanished to the east as a full moon was rising. Now released from leading the flight, Mark performed several maneuvers that expressed his joy of flying the Stinson. Such acts are always thrilling when facing rearward.

Yes, the Comanche will always be a favorite. It is not the newest, fastest, or most complicated airplane out there. It is a beautiful and competent performer. Its understated manner may fool many into thinking it nothing more than a Cherokee, but the Comanche remains a benchmark among light aircraft. We've had some remarkable and memorable flights together and it was a joy to compose this photo flight.

Kathie and Charlie

Shutterspeed: AT-6 Texan

People often ask me questions about how I compose air-to-air photos such as these. The Shutterspeed blog is meant to give some insights into the world of air-to-air photography. There is much more that goes into one of these flights than I could touch on here, but hopefully this will give an idea of some of the elements in creating these images.

SEE THE AT-6 TEXAN AIR-TO-AIR GALLERY HERE

I had been working in the field for eleven days straight, getting up before dawn every day. On my four precious days off I had lots of sleeping late scheduled. So why was my alarm clock going off at 3:22 am? One reason is that I can never bring myself to set an alarm clock to a multiple of 15. The other is that I'd gotten the call the previous afternoon that we were going to shoot a T-6 in the morning. I've always loved the North American T-6 and SNJ (Navy version). In addition to being beautiful, loud, exciting warbirds, my grandfather flew them in the Navy and had his very own issued to him while he was Commanding Officer of NAF Cabaniss Field in Corpus Christi, Texas. He has always had nothing but the highest praise for this advanced trainer.

I stepped outside into the darkness and scanned what sky I could see. There was a very high and very thin broken layer. The moon was behind the layer, but was shinning through. I was concerned that there could be heavier clouds to the east, blocking direct sunlight.

Mark and I arrived at the airport just as the very slightest hint of the coming dawn could be detected to the northeast. It did look as though there was a substantial overcast covering part of the sky in that direction, but the sky was clear and starry to the north. To the south, the lights of Denver reflected off the broken layer which had now become more of an overcast. "Take what we can get" was the thought of the morning.

Over in the corner of the flourescently lit hangar, Mark was pre-flighting his L-5. I've worked with Mark more than any other photo pilot and his big green Stinson is my preferred photoship. He was busy taking out the rear seat and reversing it. The L-5's rear position has windows which open on both sides and I couldn't think of a more ideal way to shoot an airplane than facing backwards in this plane with open air on both sides. I opened the hangar door and began pulling airplanes out so that we could get the L-5 out. It was still very dark out as we mounted up. By the glow of the cockpit light, Mark ran through the checklist that would bring the L-5's engine to life. He hit the starter and the big Lycoming began to cough. With both of my windows open, I could hear the individual unmuffled pops of each cylinder from the twin exhaust stacks on either side of the airplane as Mark coaxed the engine out of its dormancy. We taxied out in the twilight. As we approached the runway, I reached around to the push-to-talk switch by the rear throttle and tapped it seven times, queuing the runway lights. After the run-up, Mark taxied into position and added power. As we accelerated, the runway lights began appearing to each side of my vision, racing back behind us. A takeoff facing rearward is a pleasantly unusual situation every time.

Mark flying the L-5

Once aloft, we flew a graceful circle around our friend Charlie's place. His cows were bedded down in the pasture. The kitchen light was on. It's not every day you beat a cow man out of the house, but we were already airborne while he was cooking eggs. Heading west toward our staging airport at Longmont and climbing, I studied the cloud cover. It looked as though the sun might be partially obscured as it rose, but the sky seemed to be clearing slightly and the cover moving south. A golden glow was now radiating off of some of the furthest clouds. We'll pull this off, I thought. I gazed at the twinkling lights of houses and small towns below. Flying between dusk and daybreak is always a meditative affair. I leaned back, resting my head on the fire extinguisher and listened to the burbling of the engine. I said a quick prayer for good light, steady hands, and safe flying. A crackling in my headset awakened me from my stupor as Mark tuned in the Longmont AWOS frequency. Before long Mark was making radio calls and we descended into the empty pattern. Flying an arcing base-to-final, Mark set the big L-Bird onto the ground with authority.

View of an L-5 landing facing rearward

We walked around the ramp for a few minutes discussing the game-plan and studying how the light was beginning to hit the foothills. Just as the first rays of sun broke the horizon we heard thunder to the south. We swung our glances upward in unison and spotted the T-6 entering a base leg for runway 29. The gear wasn't down and the engine wasn't getting any quieter. The big plane roared down toward the threshold, leveled out about 20 feet over the runway and zoomed past us, then pulled up and dropped the gear and turned back inbound. The Pratt and Whitney chewed up the still morning's silence. After landing, the Texan taxied over to our end of the ramp and shut down. It was a beautiful machine on the ground. I couldn't wait to see what it would look like in flight. It was painted in a colorful post-war Navy SNJ scheme, but we later learned it was delivered to the Army Air Force in 1944 as an AT-6D. Doug emerged from the cockpit and greeted us. Doug and Mark both work at the same airline and got the idea for this photo shoot while flying together recently. Mark introduced me and we promptly began the briefing. Doug has been flying the T-6 regularly and was confident in its ability to fly safely with the slower L-5. We discussed our plan to get the silhouette shots first while the sun was the lowest with the most color. Then we'd proceed to a reservoir to get some deep blue backdrop on some inside orbits. We'd then move to the ridges and valleys of the foothills for some rocky and shadowy backdrops. We also would attempt an approach and landing sequence. After more details on the formation itself, we bumped fists and mounted our warbirds.

Comm checks on taxi and run-ups complete, Mark departed first and turned out to the north. Doug departed and turned toward us, doing s-turns as the L-5 climbed sedately into the brilliant morning air. Although Doug was still a bit far out, I began snapping a few images as he banked over the fields below us with his nose pointed nearly at our position. I've found that sometimes "free-style" shots where the subject is maneuvering can result in some keeper images even if there is a bit of distance. When we leveled off, I guided Doug into position so that he could put himself directly between the sun and our position. I'd say, "five feet forward... ten feet up..." and Mark would relay the instructions over the radio. When he finally blocked out the sun, he saw his shadow on our plane and knew to hold position.

T-6 Silhouette

We worked our way over to the lake and began a series of outside and inside orbits. I was very pleased at how expertly Doug was handling the formation, especially the inside turns which are always tricky for an airplane that is normally faster than the lead plane. On the inside turn, the inside plane must fly noticeably slower than the lead in order to maintain position. We were concerned about how well the T-6 would slow down from the L-5's already slow 110 mph max cruise. Doug handled it like a pro. Inside turns yield some of the more dramatic images. The plane is banked steeply over the background below it and there are usually good vectors and a sense of motion in the photos and they also highlight the terrain underneath. The lake was royal blue and the surface was glassy. It wasn't unspoiled, however, as some of our orbits brought a boat and wake-boarder into frame. While I commend the wake-boarder's tenacity to get up early to seek the calmest water possible, he simply didn't fit in an image of a 65 year old military plane. Fortunately, we were able to get plenty of good material without the recreational equipment featured, but some with the boat wake made for some interesting vectors.

Over water

After several orbits we decided to leave the lake, I'm sure much to the relief of those in some of the houses near the shore who were certainly awakened by the sound of the two warplanes. On our way to our next shooting area, we instructed Doug to perform some more free-style maneuvers while en-route. We flew up and down some of the north-south oriented hogbacks in the foothills. These layers of sediments were shoved out of the way millions of years ago as the core of the Rocky Mountains broke through the plains. Today they cast great shadows well into the morning on their west sides while the east flanks glow in the morning light. It is an area of contrasts and we positioned Doug over the shadows to take advantage of this contrast. The brightly colored plane glowed with warmth over the darkness below. After working that angle, I'd have him switch sides and compose images with the glowing rocks complimenting the T-6's stunning paintwork.

Over shadow

We performed a few more orbits with different angles and I was satisfied with the material we'd collected. Mark had been relaying most of my instructions to Doug, but I put the camera down and reached for the push-to-talk switch. "Alright Doug, solid work. I think we can head back to the airport now and try for a landing shot." His answer was positive, but his voice had a hint of relief. He'd clearly been working hard on this flight. "OK, guys. Sounds good. Let's do it."

Mark guided us toward Longmont. Doug extended the landing gear and followed us to a downwind. He and Mark coordinated the approach. We would position him on final, then Doug would stop flying off of us and concentrate on the approach while Mark held the L-5 in position above him. Shortly before touchdown, we'd initiate a go around, break formation and land. We flew a long final, giving me plenty of opportunities to slow the shutter speed down to give the background a touch of motion as the big North American flew lower and lower over it. In the viewfinder, I saw Doug cross the threshold as his shadow came into view and got closer and closer to meeting the main wheels. They never quite met as Doug called for the go-around, added power and began climbing back up toward our position, retracting the gear. After leveling off, we broke formation and landed separately.

Approach-to-landing

On the ground we were all grins, but did a debriefing discussion and looked over some of the raw photos on the camera. I don't think we've ever done a photo flight that went that smoothly. There were virtually no squawks or negative issues we could think of. The conditions could not have been more perfect and our team was rock solid in the air. We watched as Doug climbed back in the T-6, fired up the Pratt and Whitney once again and taxied for departure. I took photos of his departure and the subsequent high-speed pass. Mark and I climbed back in the L-5 and departed, reflecting on a near-perfect flight.

SEE THE AT-6 TEXAN AIR-TO-AIR GALLERY HERE

Doug and Mark

From April, 2007

Valliant

I got the chance to fly a Vultee BT-13 "Valiant" yesterday. Those who flew the type during the Second World War often called it the "Vibrator" and I'd soon find out why. The BT-13 was a basic trainer used to by both the Air Corps and the Navy. My grandfather has a fair amount of time in the type.

I was flying with Kent Ferguson, an accomplished pilot and one of the most experienced flight instructors I've ever known. He's old, looks like the tobacco leaves that he smokes profusely when not aloft, and has the general appearance of a well-worn A-2 leather flight jacket. He's also sharp as a tack when it comes to instructing. We fueled the great bird while the man running the pump took some photos. Warbirds tend to catch a lot of attention. I strapped into the front seat and began to go through the checklist while Kent crouched on the wing next to me and talked me through starting the Pratt & Whitney. One switch spools up a flywheel that sounds like a turbine engine starting up. When the flywheel reaches peak RPM, the switch below engages the engine to the spinning flywheel and the big engine coughs to life with generous encouragement from the manual fuel pump and a proper display of blue smoke.

The BT taxies as easy as any taildragger I've ever flown. The forward visibility is good, requiring only minor S-turning to see forward. At the run-up area, the procedures were normal, though the placement of all of the controls and gauges is very military and not always intuitive. If nobody told you where the fuel indicators were, you'd sit in the cockpit all day and never find them. We taxied on to the runway and got her all lined up. Kent gave me the call to increase the power to full, and the engine came to life and everything started to shake and get very, very loud. I eased to stick forward and the tail came up, greatly expanding the view forward. At about 85, we rotated and easily climbed up away from the field and out over the plains. Kent called to close the canopy and things got somewhat quieter as I slid my plexiglass shield forward and locked it in place. "This is so cool!" I thought to myself.

Kent told me just to play with her and enjoy myself. I guided the old bird north and did several steep turns to get a feel for the rudder requirements. She needed less rudder input than the Champ to make a coordinated turn, which is good because the rudders are very heavy, though the ailerons and elevators are rather light. The sound of the big radial up front was intoxicating and I couldn't keep from grinning. Looking up in the mirror on the windscreen, I could see the same reaction from Kent.

We returned to the field and entered the pattern as Kent talked me through the before landing checklist. When I moved the propeller control forward to its stop, it was like putting on the brakes as the BT decelerated nicely. I cranked in 20 degrees of flaps on downwind and another 20 on base. On final, I kept wanting to ease the power back. The engine was making far too much noise to think about landing. We also seemed fast, so I eased the stick aft. "Don't take off power, keep it fast, get the nose down. More power, more power, don't get below 80!" Kent barked from the back seat. I wasn't accustomed to flying such heavy airplanes, but once we got down over the runway, it was just a matter of holding it off and looking down to the end of the field. Just at the time I expected, the big main tires thudded down on to the ground and I eased the stick forward to keep the tail up. The BT had no notions to wander to either side of the centerline. Kent called for power, and away we went for two more. On my final approach, I was able to bring it down with adequate power and attitude without too many words from behind. We taxied her back to the hangar and shut down, and dismounted. Once we were down and I could allow my mind to wander, I thought of how many young pilots over 60 years ago had sat in the very seat I was sitting in and had instructors make them sweat as they transitioned from light-weight tube and fabric airplanes. Then, unlike me, how many of them had been sent overseas and fought for America. How many had returned and how many had not? Reflecting on these thoughts as I looked at my reflection in the polished aluminum, I realized that this was not just a new airplane to fly, not just an awesome sounding machine, but it was truly hallowed ground.