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The Year In Review
Kagawong Lighthouse, Georgian Bay, Ontario
When Colin Montgomery told his stories they were delivered in short choppy sentences — Scottish in pace, Irish in phrase, and laced with unbridled English wit meant to confound newbies, naves, or the easily confused.
In Flight
Published: June 15, 2009
By Robert Butche
Summer, 1968
This true story is the first of eight installments dealing with experiences outdoorsman Keith Bemis and I shared with Colin Montgomery, one of the most engaging characters many of us will ever meet. Although the events portrayed in this series of stories are true, they transpired over several years.
Once or twice each summer a dozen or more friends would join me in a summer soliloquy on the bountiful lakes of Manitoulin Island. It was there, framing Ontario’s Georgian Bay, that life moved at a more leisurely pace amongst people of strong will, honest bearing and warm hearts. On one such trip, early on in what was a scorching hot August, Keith Bemis and I made the journey alone — something we greatly enjoyed for we’re both avid freshwater fishermen. But there was more to our visits to Dawson’s rustic Kagawong Lake resort than wresting Great Northern from the deep.
For while Keith and I have fished the waters of countless lakes and streams in our lifetimes, it was something very different that brought us so often to the waters of Manitoulin. For it was there we had come to know a ruddy-faced, jocular man who could out-fish us on our best day, out drink us twice over, smoke a single cigarette for what seemed hours, and tell endless, often fanciful stories in a rich Canuck brogue. When Colin Montgomery told his stories they were delivered in short choppy sentences — Scottish in pace, Irish in phrase, and laced with unbridled English wit meant to confound newbies, naves, or the easily confused.
Enroute To Yesterday
Remembrances of a Far-Away Place and Time That Shall Forever Remain Near to the Heart
Our flight from Columbus International to Gore Bay International began on a crystal clear morning. The weather was perfect all the way. As a matter of safety, the long over-water flight was aboard an Aero Commander 560-F bearing tail number N-233-ES. While the weather didn’t demand it, being an international flight, we would be flying instrument flight rules. Our clearance specified a route that would take us over Cedar Point, across Lake Erie, abeam Pele Island at the mid-lake Canadian border, then over Leamington, Ontario along lake Erie’s north shore. Our longest over-water segment would begin at Sarnia, Ontario — near the Michigan border. From there we wouldn’t see land again until reaching Manitoulin Island — over 200 miles further north.
Eastern Great Lakes From Space: Erie ( bottom ), Ontario ( right ), and Huron ( top )
Of all the wonderful outdoor resources in and around the fresh water ocean the world knows as Lake Huron, there is no place to match the romance and excitement of Georgian Bay.The bay is protected by a crescent shaped island known as Manitoulin.
Canada’s island of lakes was then, and remains today, a little bit of heaven.
We had only been in the air for 30 minutes when I sensed a smile spreading across my face. It was a beautiful day — the flying weather was sensational — and already I was anticipating seeing Colin Montgomery, my newest old friend, on our arrival at Gore Bay. Shortly after passing by Sandusky, on Ohio’s north shore, we could see the Ontario shoreline 70 miles ahead. As we approached the international border at mid lake, I reached for the radio to report our position to the Cleveland Air Route Traffic Control Center. By the time we made land near Leamington, there still wasn’t a cloud in sight — although the southern tip of Lake Huron was coming into view.
Ten Thousand Feet Over Sailfish
“Cleveland Center, November Two Three Three Echo Sierra at Sailfish, ten thousand.”
“Two Three Three Echo Sierra, Cleveland. Contact Toronto Center now one thirty one point three.”
“Roger, Echo Sierra — Toronto on one thirty one point three. Good day. . .”
“Wanna fly a while?,” I asked Keith.
“Sure,” he replied, taking the control yoke into hand. “Where do you want me to aim it?”
Enroute To Georgian Bay
“See if you can hit Canada,” I said, wryly.
“Good afternoon, Toronto,” I announced into the microphone, “November Two Three Three Echo Sierra by Sailfish at ten thousand. Requesting direct Gore Bay.”
Pilots flying frequently into Canadian airspace knew not to ask for short-cut routings on the IFR flight plan. Asking in flight was something else — perhaps an unwritten understanding between pilots and air traffic controllers. Today was to be such one of those exceptions, for if I could get a direct route approved by Toronto Air Traffic Control, we could fly the short route to Gore Bay — across Lake Huron. The over-water route would save us as much as 20 minutes flying time.
“Negative on your direct request, Echo Sierra,” Toronto replied. “Proceed on flight plan route via Goderich, Wiarton, then direct Gore Bay, maintain ten thousand.”
So much for the pilot-controller bond idea, I thought. Maybe the long route was best in foul weather, but not today.
“Cancel IFR, Toronto,” I told the controller. “We’ve got 200-mile visibility up here today. I think I’ll put some of it to use.”
“Roger, Echo Sierra,” the controller replied, “canceling IFR at fifty-one. Better report abeam Wiarton so somebody can wake up the flight station crew at Gore Bay.”
Keith looked at me quizzically.
“They’re just making fun of the sleepy Manitoulinders,” I said matter of factly.
Returning to the radio, I added, “Roger, Toronto, we’ll check in when abeam Wiarton. Good day.”
More On . . .
“How am I doing?,” Keith inquired.
“So far, so good,” I assured him, “you hit Canada sure enough. Now see if you can hit that big lake ahead.” Keith knew something I didn’t at that point — I had failed to disengage the auto-pilot.
“Then turn the damn auto-pilot off,” Keith insisted.
I did — for Keith surely didn’t need it. Then I laid back my head to rest my eyes. “Wake me up if there’s any danger of a crash,” I admonished him.
About a half-hour later, Wiarton radio was happy to take our mid-lake position report. Not long after that, we were in range of the aeronautical communications station at Gore Bay. About 30 miles out, still high over Lake Huron, I radioed Gore Bay that we had begun our descent — that we’d be landing in about a half-hour.
Thundering Arrival
Lake Kagawong -- Bridal Falls
Once we made land over Manitoulin at Providence Bay, I took a bead on the small village at Mindamoya already in view alongside the lake of the same name. From there we raced north to the Georgian Bay shoreline. From there a gentle left turn would then aim us toward the east lobe of Lake Kagawong.
After passing over Mudge Bay, I descended southward over Lake Kagawong’s north lobe until we were about 10 feet above the water — at full throttle. I couldn’t help but notice Kagawong’s beautiful Bridal Falls as we sped by — what a sight to see — the waters gently falling into the lake.
Moments later we saw Dawson’s Resort ahead. I stayed close to the water as we approached — taking aim on the unpretentious fish house dead ahead. Given the noise level of our 700 horsepower engines, our low-water approach was certain to scare Hell out of the fish — if not raise the recently buried.
On good days, buzzing Dawson’s would easily get Colin Montgomery’s attention. This was one of those good days. “There’s Colin,” Keith said over the noise, “he’s on the pier.”
Montgomery waved at us as we passed overhead.
“Hold on to your stomach,” I said, as I gently tugged back the yoke to sail above the trees. In a few seconds we were a thousand feet above the ground and heading to the small airfield at Gore Bay. I radioed the Gore Bay aerodrome to report that we were inbound for landing. When we passed overhead the sleepy village, I lined up on final. As usual, we were the only aircraft on the airport apron. As soon as the props were still, I went inside to record our arrival.
Gore Bay International — { CYZE }
Waiting For Mr. Goodman
Gore Bay International Airport is not a busy destination, but while Keith and I had brought plenty of fishing gear, it was the people of Manitoulin we had come to love during those magical summers. If Colin Montgomery, and his wife Myrtle Dawson were to be our hosts at nearby Dawson’s Resort, they were only the principal characters in a recurring panoply of Canadian friends we had come to know and love in far simpler and tranquil times.
But before Colin could arrive at Gore Bay airport, the fun would begin with the arrival of someone else who never missed our arrival, or anyone else’s. His name was Monte Goodman — and the trail of dust coming toward us far down the road said he knew we had landed.