One Golden Moment
by
Mal Shipton
Scarborough Qld, Australia

Behind me to the west lay almost a thousand track miles already covered in the day. Welcome winter westerlies had given a sixty knot bonus to my groundspeed at 9500’ cruising level where the ride was perfect, even if a mite chilly.

My calculations showed I could easily skip the last planned fuel stop which would allow me to make it home just before last light.

With the nose rolled over in a 300 fpm rate of descent, the Cessna 195 built up speed, partly compensating for the gradual loss of the tailwind component during the long descent. Beneath the fourteen streamlined blisters that ringed the cowl, the dependable Jacobs rumbled at 1950 rpm, the manifold pressure being reduced periodically as height was converted to speed.

Ahead the last of the mountains surrendered to the coastal plain which in turn slid into the inky sea.

Perhaps as a result of the waning sea breeze, a translucent layer of stratus now covered the land at about 2000’. The oblique red rays of the dying sun painted the cloud like a huge, sheer, silken shawl, each fold bathed in varying incandescent hues of scarlet.

The arc of the big prop was similarly lit from behind as the aircraft approached the cloud level, where the descent was arrested.

In the motionless air, the spatted wheels of the 195 ‘Businessliner’ skimmed the thin stratus racing across the golden surface, dipping one wingtip then the other.

The true airspeed of two and a bit miles a minute delivered by a fuel burn of one litre a minute was clearly evident as the machine with its distorted shadow leading, hurtled across the surreal skyscape.

Already the first ground lights were visible through the translucent stratus as the mountains, now behind, cast a long shadow over the surface where most mortals spend their lives.

Finally the big red bird sliced through for the final descent to circuit height.

A gentle spiralling crosswind, downwind and base leg set up a close final, where the air was so still I could feel every subtle nuance of the classic.

The mains gave a gentle skip across the grass adjacent the sealed strip, used by more modern types, before settling with the tail wheel shortly following.

As I taxied to the hangar the fading light did little to assist the already poor forward visibility around the cowl.

The engine was run for two minutes to stabilise temperatures and the Hamilton Standard pulled to coarse pitch, covering the piston area, at a slow 450 rpm.

As I sat, wearily filling out the Maintenance Release, the reaction to the slow moving mass of metal inside the radial rocked the aircraft gently side to side on its spring legs.

With great reluctance to end the moment, I pulled the mixture to idle cut off and the ordered clatter of the valve gear soon gave way to the sound of the gyros that helped win the Second World War spinning down amidst the smells of burnt oil, old upholstery and long since repaired fuel weeps.

If only I could push the mixture control back in and return to where I belong, I mused.