The Making of a Pilot

He sits on the uppermost slope of the hill overlooking the boat-houses lining the little bay on the Abitibi River.

The river’s true colour is dead-leaf brown but there are days like today when reflected sky turns it blue as any painted river. Lining the opposite shore, conifers look navy, their needles that dark in the shadows.

His own house is directly behind him. He knows Mother can see him from the kitchen window but he doesn’t mind. She knows the river is a terrible temptation for a boy.

He sits quietly, this boy, bare legs sprouting from wrinkled shorts with toad-bulging pockets. He sits and watches, ignoring grassy pinpricks on the back of his legs. Ants creep over his hands as he leans back, binoculars chest-ready.

He waits. Mother said they’d come soon and he believes her. He listens hard. Usually you hear them before you see them.

He wonders what they honk about, and imagines.
“Hey! You try leading for awhile.”
“Buddy, you’re heading in the wrong direction!”
“This looks like a good spot. Let’s put down here for the night.”
Or his own favourite: “Are we there yet?”
And the standard, “Mom, I’m tired; I’m hungry. I can’t go on anymore.”

All the conversations.
Leaders motivating the flock to follow, follow me!
Dams quibbling with drakes.
Parents cajoling their young.
Rebels breaking off to go it alone.
The old knowing; the young hoping,
Maybe just plain whining in their tremendous effort.

He wonders how they know where they’re going. He tries to imagine instinct. Is it a faint signal or an overwhelming
command? His thoughts circle, does he himself have instinct?
Would he recognize it if he did? Is it like being lost in a Toronto department store but wisely staying put, believing your parents would eventually find you? They did. But how did he know? He wondered, and pondered, and waited.

His ears pick up the faint ululating sound every Canadian knows, a flock is on the wing. It undulates in volume as does the flock itself undulate in the sky faced with a strong head wind. He coaches them: Ssh, ssh! Don’t announce yourself to hunters!
But announce they do: We’re here. We’re here. And here they are.

The binoculars rise to his eyes. He adjusts the viewfinder as best he can to fit and better focus…the binoculars are his Dad’s. He spies on the leader. Watches his neck, his wings, how hard he works. Is it male? How can he tell? Do females lead?

The leader peels off and another tackles the wind. The first leader slips in behind others, not working as hard. The boy begins to appreciate how wind, air, and size affect speed and flight.

He observes the many members in this flock. Looks for differences, similarities. Looks to distinguish and to learn. Looks to understand flight. How it is such slight movement of wings keeps their heavy bodies aloft at all? Why do they change their path and height of flight so erratically? He is mystified and transfixed.

And he yearns, yearns with every fibre of his being to know how to fly. To fly like a Canada goose.



Boy: photo by Bill Liao
Incoming (flock): photo by sandon1090
Incoming (duo): photo by haydensimons
For more photos, visit Flickr