RV7 Flight: Saskatchewan, Part 2

So there we were, flying over a desolate area of Montana toward the Canadian border. We were without the ability to make radio contact with anyone, although we were on radar. When you get on radar, your transponder "squawks" a code that identifies which plane you are in the vast atmosphere. 

Though on radar, we were very swiftly approaching the border, which hubby decided we should not cross unless we were in radio communication with Winnipeg Center. 

This little blip (no radio contact) came as a big surprise to him, as well as that Salt Lake Center had no record of him filing an International Flight Plan. He had done so much research about flying into Canada. We both got passports, a requirement. He made a huge "N" number (airplane identifying number) on the side of the airplane with electrical tape, above. 

In America, N numbers need be only 3" tall. For border crossings, they need to be 10". After landing in Great Falls, we checked to make sure the electrical tape hadn't blown off. It was still stuck on very well, and in fact, we now have a mess to clean up. I'm hoping a magic sponge will do the trick. 

Picture above shows what our N number usually looks like. Hubby did many other things to get the plane, and himself as a pilot, ready for the trip. Canadian regulations require some equipment that U.S. regulations don't require; he made sure to jump through all of those hoops as well. 

So, as we were barreling toward Canada, no International Flight Plan on record, no radio contact with Winnipeg Center, and completely outside of the F.A.A.'s strict rules and regulations, what did we do? 

Right before crossing the border, we did the only thing we could do. We turned around. Instead of flying an hour back to Great Falls (160 miles), we decided to make an unplanned stop in Havre, Montana, which was about a 100-mile detour (adding 200 miles to our flight instead of 320). 

Picture above is the runway at Havre. Montana is so flat east of the mountains that I can see why it's called Big Sky Country. We were laid over in Havre for another couple of hours while hubby did more hair-pulling. The airport at Havre is tiny, but it does have a terminal, and a place where pilots can make phone calls (from their own cell phones), use (the pilot's personal) computers, or take a nap. 

The vexing problem was that hubby couldn't manage to talk to another human, but only to a machine, when trying to re-file the International Flight Plan. He had filed the original one online, and it didn't "take," and so talking with a human would've saved a lot of trouble. In the end, he discovered the problem was from a simple mistake he had made. He had used MST or MDT (mountain standard or mountain daylight) time to file the plan. After studying it, he finally had an Aha! moment and discovered he needed to file it in Zulu time. Once he had done that, he filled in the blanks with Zulu time, and we were set to go. 

This is what Canada looks like as you cross the border. It's flat, desolate, and very wet! Once again, though, we lost radio contact with Salt Lake Center. Once again, we couldn't contact Winnipeg Center. This time, though, we were dealing with a friendlier air traffic controller (a woman!) in Salt Lake City. 

When our communication started breaking up (we could hear her, but she couldn't hear us), she contacted an airliner somewhere above us that was flying at 32,000 feet and we had a three-way relay of information. That was when we learned that as long as Winnipeg Center heard our transponder "squawk," (radar communication) which they did, we didn't need to be in radio contact.  

Hubby and I had eaten breakfast at 6:30 am PST and then nothing more throughout the day. We were getting pretty tired and hungry by the time we (finally!) caught sight of Regina, Saskatchewan. 

Yet, Regina was STILL an hour away by air from our final destination. 

We needed to stop in Regina to go through Customs. We'd heard that the inspection can be so thorough that they practically rip your plane apart. We sure weren't looking forward to that. We had already talked to them twice that day, as you are required to talk to them within an hour of your expected arrival. Since ours was delayed a couple of times, they were getting to know us before we landed. 

And, of course, things didn't go quite the way we hoped. 

Touching down in Regina, Saskatchewan. No, it's not pronounced Regeena. 

The airport at Regina is huge. We were directed to go to a building with a blue roof, which was supposedly Customs. It wasn't. It was only Information. While hubby once again tried to make contact with Customs, I sprinted to the FBO to use the restroom. We also needed more fuel. 

While sitting in the Esso (fuel) building, waiting for them to send a truck out to refuel our plane, I wanted to get a pop from the pop machine, but it took only Loonies. I didn't have any Loonies (dollar coins) or Toonies (two-dollar coins). I didn't have any Canadian money at all. 

I love what they call their coins!

I didn't love that the moment I stepped off the asphalt into some grass, a swarm of mosquitoes rose up and started biting me all over. It was our first indication that Saskatchewan is the home of billions, maybe trillions, of mosquitoes. 

As it turned out, Customs was great. They asked us a few questions, and we were good to go. 

This picture shows you how watery Saskatchewan is, but people do farm wherever it isn't too wet to farm. It's quite flat. You can see a North-South highway. Because the land is so flat, you see many roads in very straight grids (sectionals) running North & South, East & West. Most of the roads are gravel. 

As with all of Canada, Saskatchewan is not highly populated. But Saskatchewan is, apparently, the richest province, with oil and potash in development. 

It was 7:30 pm when we landed in Preeceville, our destination. They're not on daylight savings time, or it would've been 8:30 pm. Dusk was settling. Below us, it all looked green. The airport at Preeceville is so small, it's not marked by buildings, other airplanes, or even a windsock. We discovered later that there IS a windsock; it was just getting too dark for us to see it. And, of course, there were no runway lights. 

So, we circled around and around it. I was watching our Av-Map, which showed us exactly where the airport was below us. Like an Etch-a-Sketch, it showed our little plane circling around the area as we looked for a grass runway hiding in plain sight, surrounded by fields where horses and cattle graze. Finally, we found it! 

Brother Brian Jackobowski was there, waiting to pick us up. He drove us 10 miles to where our little church group had gathered at the beautiful log home of one of the brethren. They'd all finished a barbeque hours before, but there was still plenty of food to eat, and boy, were we hungry! 

A couple hours later, in honor of the handful of American brethren who had come to attend the convention, they shot off Fourth of July fireworks while we all stood outside and were eaten by mosquitoes. 

After all we went through to get there, the convention was wonderful, as was the hospitality of our Canadian brethren, and the Jacobowski family, with whom we stayed. We had met them only once before, in the mid-1980's, at a convention beside Flathead Lake, near Kalispell, Montana. 

After the convention was over on Sunday, we had expected our return flight to be a piece of cake. Once again, things didn't go exactly as planned. (Do they ever?) For one thing, we couldn't depart on Monday due to massive thunderstorms in Montana and Canada. So we continued our stay with the Jacobowskis, who are farmers. Brian showed us what farming is like in Saskatchewan, which is very different from farming on the Palouse. 

I'll write about our return flight home tomorrow ...