The team first appeared on the airshow circuit in Canada and the United States 2 years ago, thrilling the crowd with the crossovers (giving the appearance of a near miss) and four-ship formation aerobatics. They amuse the crowd with an imaginative Crazy Diamond maneuver (shown here), a discombobulated formation in which three aircraft are in uncoordinated flight (forward slips, unusual attitudes) while the fourth is inverted.
The Northern Lights team was founded by former Canadian Snowbirds pilot Andre Lortie, who has attracted other ex-Snowbirds to the act. The Canadian Snowbirds — a nine-jet aerobatic formation team — are Canada's equivalent of the U.S. Thunderbirds or Blue Angels. The team also includes Florida aerobatic champion Michele Thonney, a Swiss pilot with degrees in math and physics who came to the United States 8 years ago because she found better opportunities for women pilots here, and so she never left. While there are seven pilots, only four fly in any one show, allowing others to take a break from life on the road. Except for Thonney, none were tailwheel pilots before they joined the Extra 300-equipped team.
The Northern Lights use many of the techniques they learned as Snowbirds. Today, Lortie, Glenn Kerr, Mario Hamel, and Thonney will fly only a few feet apart over Wilkes-Barre. Spacing is normally 2 to 3 feet, although they expand that safety margin to 7 feet during a line-abreast loop.
Filling out the Northern Lights complement is mechanic Pierre Vermette, who likes to make fun of pilot M�n�s Pierre-Pierre's name by calling himself the "third Pierre." Pierre-Pierre is manning the office in Ottawa, Canada, today. (After this article was written, the team changed to a five-aircraft formation act and changed personnel. The pilots for 1997 are Lortie, Hamel, Thonney, Dave Deere and Eric Haagenson.)
Today, the Northern Lights must give flights to the press to promote the upcoming weekend event and themselves — not that they need the publicity. It is August. So far this season, the team has performed in 19 towns; they made the front page in 14 of them.
The previous day they were in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, flying 32 employees of Lycoming — a major sponsor.
Hamel, looking dapper and professorial behind his mustache, enjoys the unqualified trust of the rest of the team. For that reason, the former military instructor is chosen to keep me under control during the formation loop; I'll ride in the front of his Extra and find out whether my 25 hours of aerobatic instruction and 7 hours of formation flying is enough.
When the Thursday morning press rides end, there are more sponsor employees to fly in the afternoon; these work for a telephone company. The Northern Lights pile community service activities on top of their other duties. Their greatest hope is that their flying will inspire kids to seek careers in aviation. Without these lofty goals, there might be no Northern Lights. "I don't want to just have fun. If I weren't doing this, I would fly search and rescue missions," says Lortie. "I would also," adds Thonney. Thonney flies medical transportation missions for Angel Flight of Florida when not on the airshow circuit.
On Thursday night, Lortie flies his Extra 300 to Washington, D.C., to pick up the communications director of an aviation industry lobbying group. There's a chance that she could become a Northern Lights sponsor, so the team is giving her first-class treatment. A 2-hour business meeting with her is scheduled for Friday morning. After all that waiting, I can fly.
On Friday morning the weather is foggy. Ceilings improve, but are not high enough for a loop. "Maybe we'll do up lines and down lines," Kerr says. The team plops down in the pilot lounge at Tech Aviation to wait it out. Thonney and Kerr break out laptop computers and take care of paperwork, while Lortie frets. He hates waiting; it is more tiring than flying all day.
Hamel is conducting an hour-long briefing with me about what we will do, and will not do, in aircraft number two during the formation loop. When he says, "I have the airplane," I am to answer that he has it and let go of the controls. If things start to go wrong, one of us will radio the word "Shadow" as a warning to the other pilots. If I lose formation, we will call "Two's out." We discuss the aerodynamics of what will happen; remember right rudder over the top of the loop, he says. The word "Lycoming," printed on Lortie's cowling, should appear just below Lortie's wing when I am in position, and my left wing should appear even with his horizontal stabilizer.
I will be allowed to increase the standard 2 to 3 feet of separation if I desire. (Yes, thank you, I so desire. How about 20?) The only way to fly this tight, Hamel continues, is to use nose-down trim so that there is always pressure on your hand. Nose-down trim helps to smooth the bumps. Finally, Kerr comes over with a piece of paper. Would I mind declaring that I have not received instruction from the team in doing formation loops and promise in writing never to do them again? Never? That last part sounds a little strict; but, sure, at this point I'll sign anything.
Early afternoon arrives and the ceiling is lifting. None of us has had lunch, but I had a big breakfast with a Dramamine pill as dessert. The original plan was to have me ride through an actual pre-show practice, which would include many of the actual maneuvers used in the show, and I had promised Kerr that I would not get airsick. The Dramamine is just a little extra insurance to cover the promise. But now there won't be time for much team practice.
A ratchet on the five-point harness winches me tight against the seat. Tighten until you can almost hear the hips crack; that should be about right, but crank it one more time just to be sure. The seat belt seems looser when you are upside down. The headset is embedded in a canvas helmet to keep it from falling off. A strong leather strap fastens under the chin; even a tight canvas helmet can fly off in heavy G forces. Shoulder straps fasten over the parachute harness.
Lortie calls the takeoff roll, and four aircraft add power as one, already arranged on the runway in the diamond formation that will be used in the air; Lortie is in front, Hamel and I are on the right, Kerr is in back (I have been warned not to drift back in formation, or go down, as I will be in Kerr's airspace), and Thonney on the left. Hamel will do the takeoff, and I will concentrate on keeping my hands and feet out of the way. There are no cameras on any of the aircraft for this flight; they could get loose when G forces increase and crash through the canopy.
When we are airborne at last and maddeningly tight, Lortie calls for separation and a check of the cockpit and harness. Hamel scoots our Extra 100 feet right, Kerr falls back, and Thonney moves left. We roll inverted and note that nothing falls toward the canopy — especially coins, pens, film canisters, anything that could jam flight controls. Then the formation pulls up and down sharply to test the seat harness. After rolling upright and returning to tight formation, I am given control.
The Extra 300 is blessed with highly responsive controls, and my first official act is to yo-yo up and down in position like an idiot. Up 20 feet, down 35, up 10, up 2. Finally, there's the word "Lycoming" lined up with the bottom edge of Lortie's wing. If only it would stay there. Lortie says we will do lazy eights in formation, climbing and descending to the right, then to the left, then back to the right. Yo-yo time again.
In the last descending turn of the last lazy eight, the Extra 300 and I have come to terms. It is staying where I want it, with Hamel coaching and guarding the controls in the back seat. Now, Hamel says, it is showtime — time for the loop.
First Hamel does one with the group as I follow through on the controls. There is little control or throttle movement, except for a throttle reduction over the top of an inch or two of manifold pressure. Can't really say how much of a reduction, since there are no instruments of any kind in the front cockpit. And now it is my turn.
"Two back for a loop," Lortie calls. I am unaccustomed to the French/Canadian accent, or the cadence of his call, especially over the roar of the engine. (Later, Lortie will insist that he doesn't know what "back" means — perhaps it's a Snowbird thing and I wouldn't understand — but Kerr will explain that it means two seconds back from the time we start the loop.) To heck with the commands, I will just go wherever Lortie's aircraft goes.
"One back."
"Pulling up," Lortie says casually.
Lortie floats upward gracefully at first, but the smooth increase in back pressure makes his aircraft appear as though it is rocket-powered. G forces are pushing me down in the seat, but I am still hopelessly behind. Pulling harder on the stick to catch up, I also add power. We're going up vertically, and I am still losing the race, even at full throttle. Mimicking the lead aircraft's attitude, I am on my back now over the top of the loop and catching up to the leader rapidly. I am too distracted to think about right rudder and am headed towards Lortie's aircraft. Lortie's peripheral vision picks up a menace from below — me — but he knows that Hamel will prevent me from killing everyone in the formation. I am within 2 feet of Lortie's horizontal stabilizer, a normal position for Hamel, but am correcting away from the leader with ailerons as the formation starts down the back of the loop. Banking more steeply to increase separation, I lose sight of the leader and know that I need to leave the formation immediately. You don't lose sight of the leader. It's the biggest no-no in formation flying. Sitting in the back and with a different perspective, Hamel can still see Lortie — and probably wonders why I am pulling away.
"I have the aircraft," Hamel says, and expertly rejoins the formation. There will be another try, but Hamel will finish this loop.
The second loop begins much like the first, with Lortie shooting away as I fail to match the force of his pull on the stick. Again I add power, lots of it, but maintain better directional control. On my back and passing over the top of the loop, I still have full power and pass the entire formation. I had joked on the ground that I would be leading the Northern Lights before long, and now I am, but the top of a loop is a no-passing zone, especially when you are aircraft number two. I try to slow down by reducing power, but since the aircraft is already slow, the power reduction has little effect. Lortie calls, "Two's out," and I have failed again. I really wish I could say that loop three went better, but it served instead as a review of all my earlier mistakes.
There is a different kind of patter on the radio now, not the cadence of commands indicating that Lortie is setting up for the loop. Through the Swiss and French accents, I gather that the group is suggesting that we do something else. Plant a garden. Take a vacation. Land. But no more loops. Finally I am offered the chance to continue, and I accept. I am still confused by commands that the group has practiced over hundreds of hours. Lortie calls, "Two, call ready." At first I say nothing, then I get the idea and overdo it.
"Two's ready," I say.
"Two back for a loop," Lortie replies.
"Two's ready."
"One back."
"Two's ready."
"Pulling up."
Loops four and five seem to click. I tell myself that Lortie is actually our AOPA Pilot photographer and I need to keep my aircraft where it can be photographed — something I have done before. I increase my separation distance to half that used on a typical photo shoot. The additional room seems to help, and when the next two loops are finished, I am still in the same airspace — Pennsylvania's — and declare the loops a success. I am back too far at the finish but can easily catch up. The entire formation now goes to a wide separation to allow individual maneuvers. I choose to do a lazy aileron roll to celebrate; nose up 45 degrees; stop and neutralize the controls, then make a gentle, coordinated turn to the left until passing through inverted and back upright.
Back on the ground, I admit to numerous errors until Lortie, Kerr, and Hamel remind me, "If it were easy, everybody would do it." I tell them that all I remember from the flight is concentrating on the silver letters in the word "Lycoming." Actually, they are white. I wasn't in position often enough to know what color they were.
Saturday is airshow day at Wilkes-Barre, where other featured acts include the Canadian Snowbirds; Ian Groom, the Fujichrome Sukhoi pilot and tutor to national aerobatic champions; and Leo Laudenslager, the former national and even world aerobatic champion whose Budweiser Laser 200 aircraft was the inspiration for the Extra 300. Northern Lights and Snowbirds pilots are having a reunion, cracking jokes and pausing to chat. "He's setting up for a crossover," Thonney shouts as she drives across the airport ramp and finds a car full of Snowbirds headed directly at her. The memory that lingers longest for the Northern Lights, however, is stronger than even the renewal of old friendships or, hopefully, magazine writers who yo-yo alongside them in a loop (technically, the latter comes under post-trauma stress rather than memory). It comes after they have performed, after they have received the applause of the crowd and have gone to the Lycoming tent to sign posters and airshow programs for the kids. Some of them stare in awe, and most are too shy to say anything. The Northern Lights are making an impression on kids who may one day take up a career in aviation. That, after all, is the team's dream.
To find out where you can see the Northern Lights perform, see the team's Web site ( www.totavia.com/nlights/).
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