I never had any doubt that Paul could fly . . . !

Yesterday we made use of the second half of his Charity Auction present to himself, flying up and away over the autumn glory of the Hills of the Headwaters on the edge of Niagara escarpment near Brampton (to the north-west of Toronto). In what was really a brief pre-flying lesson, I thought he might take the controls for a short while.  In the end, the only thing he didn’t do was land the plane as there was a little turbulence. From taxi, to take-off, to climbing to cruising height and holding steady, banking round to return to Brampton Flight Centre, he did it all. Very impressive!

  The Flying Lesson Begins   Paul at the Controls   Back on the Ground - Gina and Paul

I’m also thinking he now has significant influence with ‘the clerk of the weather’; just as for our harbour cruise on his birthday, we had the most perfect sunny day. Magic! I got to sit in the back seat and take photos.

A Landscape Cut Through by Gullies    Looking Across Brampton to Ontario's Shore    Hills of the Headwaters - Rolling Hills in Fall Finery
Hills of the Headwaters - Rolling Hills in Fall Finery    Caledon's Quarries    Hills of the Headwaters - Rolling Hills in Fall Finery
Caledon Ski Hills    Hills of the Headwaters - Serious Horse Country!    Hills of the Headwaters - Rolling Hills in Fall Finery
Edge of Runway    A Typical Ontario Road Through the Hills and Fields    Coming in to Land

(Click on any image to enlarge and page through photos with brief descriptions.)

This poem was on the wall at Brampton Flight Centre. It captures so well the feeling of the day . . .

High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air….

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
– Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr.