THE UNIVERSITY OF SASKATCHEWAN’S MAIN CAMPUS IS SITUATED ON TREATY 6 TERRITORY AND THE HOMELAND OF THE MÉTIS.
THE UNIVERSITY OF SASKATCHEWAN’S MAIN CAMPUS IS SITUATED ON TREATY 6 TERRITORY AND THE HOMELAND OF THE MÉTIS.
ADAM VIGNERON
News Writer
Grant Scoular and Roman Nahachewsky are in Norway learning to launch rockets on behalf of the University of Saskatchewan. The physics and engineering students are taking part in the Canada-Norway Student Rocket Programme at the Andøya Rocket Range in Arctic Norway. CaNoRock’s main goal: mission exposure — as early, often and low-cost as possible.
Along with an international team of undergraduate students, they are charged with the task of launching a rocket into the polar atmosphere.
As a peek at what they are up to, Adam Vigneron tells the story of last year’s launch, the first ever in the program.
After waking a few of my comrades from the University of Tromsø (UiT), we head to the cafeteria. Walking through the education and administration wing of the rocket range, we marvel again at the variety of programs and research performed here at ARR — from high school soda-can satellites to laser-radar atmospheric probes, from weather-balloons to NASA-sponsored rockets to the height of the International Space Station.
At the cafeteria, we help ourselves to the typical (arguably traditional) Norwegian public breakfast fare of cold sliced vegetables, hard crackers and pickled fish. As a tip-of-the-hat to the North American visitors, the cafeteria has provided a small jar of peanut butter. It is a welcome addition.
Stomach full, I sit back and realize the room is buzzing with excitement.
Launch day has arrived.
As we run through the countdown procedure, the casual attitude we’ve had throughout the week has been set aside. The range safety officer makes it clear that today’s launch will follow the same strict guidelines that govern every launch from Andøya and that a successful launch will require precise teamwork.
Following the countdown outline, Alex Murr, an Austrian PhD, leads the presentation from the rocket team, outlining the expected behaviour and flight pattern of the upcoming launch.
Finally, David Miles, the lone grad student on-site, presents his thesis magnetometer — an electronic device the size of a business card capable of magnetic field measurement at a speed and resolution comparable to devices 10 times its size. This magnetometer sets our mission apart as more than a chance for undergraduates to experience a rocket campaign firsthand; we are performing real science.
As members of the telemetry team, James Huber and I head to the student telemetry station (NAROM TM) in clear view of the launch pad.
Telemetry is the art of remote measurement. This rocket will splash down in the Arctic ocean some four kilometres offshore and the only way to retrieve our data is by radio communication.
We’ve tested and re-tested our setup. Our tracking abilities enabled us to monitor a satellite pass, while rocket payload transmission/reception was demonstrated for stability and durability.
NAROM TM is different from the main telemetry station (MAIN TM) as it’s equipped with a user-controlled horn antenna — and I do mean user-controlled. The direction of the antenna is controlled by two knobs: one controls the heading, while the other controls the elevation. For the last two days, Huber and I have been practising our rocket-tracking abilities.
With one eye on the clock and the other on the calculated flightpath, Huber calls out the angles as I attempt to match his call.
Televisions around the range flicker to life and the countdown begins.
Right on schedule, launch control support and the balloon team launch the first weather-balloon to confirm that launch conditions are optimal. Fire, ambulance and air traffic control have all been notified of the impending launch.
Huber and I confirm communications with launch control tower and test our go/no-go light. These crucial switches are the most elementary form of override; without a lit bank, the launch tower will hold ignition and the countdown will be reset.
Radio silence. All communications are halted while the rocket and payload are installed on the launch pad with umbilical and firing lines connected. Tension rises as James and I realize we are passing one point of no return.
Once the firing line is connected, the range staff will be hard-pressed to disassemble the live rocket motor.
Radio silence lifted. With relief, Huber and I swing the antenna around to zero in on the rocket on-pad and confirm that we are in communication. Meanwhile, the results of the balloon launch are in; the weather team gives the all-clear. It is now up to payload team to confirm that all instruments are functioning.
Payload team gives the green light. We are go for launch.
Hold on launch. This is unexpected: within seconds, our phone rings.
After recovering from the shock of discovering we have a phone, I pick it up and speak to main telemetry, the antenna operated by the rocket range personnel.
It turns out that equipment designed to accurately detect the rocket’s distance from base is not calibrated properly. Startled, we provide them with our calculated telemetry settings. After a few tense minutes, a second call confirms that they will not be able to solve this problem, and are switching to a needle-on-reel paper chart recorder.
This short experience highlighted both of the great lessons I learned at Andøya. First, when it comes to rocketry, grades are pass-fail. Second, the space industry continues to rely upon tested and true technology rather than the cutting-edge that most expect. Why? Because it works.
Apparently time can stop after all.
Countdown resumes. All car engines are prohibited from running until rocket impact. I can’t say exactly why this step was taken, but I’m not about to argue.
Radio silence lifted. Payload is switched to external power and once again begins transmitting. A few minutes later, the PA crackles to life and warns all personnel to seek ground cover in preparation for launch.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as we begin recording data from the rocket. MAIN TM reports that the on-board oscillator signal has stabilized — used for range-finding, it is all the more critical given our present equipment failure.
We flick our go/no-go switch to green and await the tally with bated breath. Launch control reports all systems go and we let ourselves enjoy a small cheer. But the hard work is still to come.
We arm the payload. This is truly the point of no return. On our scientific rocket, “arming” involves burning out a fuse that irreversibly drains the payload power supply.
The range echoes with the final seconds of the countdown: T-minus 10, nine… We hold our breaths and prepare for the launch. Three, two, one, ignition.
We hear a sharp WHOOSH as the umbilicals disengage and the Canadian-built rocket soars into the stratosphere.
With practised precision, Huber marks off the seconds while I dial in the coordinates: T-plus one, two, three…
The next 90 seconds are a blur of numbers and dials. With some shock James finally taps me on the shoulder with a big grin and reminds me that the rocket has now splashed down into the Arctic Ocean.
Our reverie is halted by a final crackle of the PA. Finding it difficult to keep the excitement out of his voice, Vit announces that the highway is open, that the launch-pad is ready for inspection and he gives the details of the post-flight meeting.
CaNoRock 1 has been safely launched — we did it!
The postflight meeting, group work and lectures to follow were lighthearted and joyous, and the evening celebration was given a little more spark by a beverage run by the author and a few of the more industrious students from the University of Oslo. The Canadians were also treated to a celebrity interview by the local press, reminding them of the sheer uniqueness of the occasion.
