The Flying Wire

It has been said that half of aviation is learning how to land. There is some truth to this statement. So every now and then, I head back to the training hill for a little bit of T&L – Takeoffs and Landings. It’s exhausting, tedious, and a potential source of embarrassment, but it makes me a better person. So I claim

This weekend’s return to the training hill was prompted by our first day at Black Cap, when I backed off launch because I wasn’t sure I could pull it off, and our last day, when I most definitely failed to pull off a landing. I figured I’d get some exercise, spruce up my technique, and go home feeling smug and self-righteous. At least that was the plan.

I arrived at Ed Levin Park to discover that conditions were wretched, with high temperatures, dead air, and small thermal cycles blowing fitful little zephyrs from every direction. This was perfect! This was exactly what I wanted! If my goal was to suffer, I had picked the right day. Full of masochism, I set up my wing and harness, preflighted it, and dragged the whole lot – 100 lbs or so – up the 50’ hill for my first flight. There wasn’t a breath of wind, but I knew how to handle a no-wind takeoff on a hot day.

Or so I thought.

Picking myself up after the impact, I checked out my wing to make sure it was OK, then dragged it up the hill for a second flight. Perhaps I’d picked the wrong moment to launch, when the wind had started to blow downhill. Yes, that must be it! Surely there couldn’t be anything wrong with my technique. The second flight was near-perfect, with a smooth launch, good speed and directional control, and a two-step landing after a slightly-too-late flare.

Yes, I thought, I’ve got this figured out! One more flight to make sure I’ve got this all sorted out, then I could head home for a beer. Feeling smug, I slogged back up the hill for what I was certain would be a triumphant conclusion to the T&L session.

Right.

After I’d picked myself up, dusted myself off, and finished grumbling, I dragged my wing over to the breakdown area. Something was wrong, and I wasn’t going to sort it out by banging my head against the wall. Fortunately a friend had set up a camera to film some of his students, I walked over and asked him to back it up so I could looked over my third flight – such as it was.

It was most definitely not a thing of beauty. I’d pitched my wing up to get it off my shoulders early in my takeoff, then failed to run fast enough to really get flying. This is one of those elementary mistakes that one believes one has outgrown… and one of the reasons we head back to the training hill is to see if these beliefs are correct.

I considered heading home at this point. It was hot, I was tired, and I was screwing up – all good reasons to take a break. But I was also stubborn, so I dragged myself back up the hill to give it another go. I should know how to launch a hang glider, darn it! I’d been doing it for 26 years! A few minutes to get my breath back, a few more minutes to visualize the technique I should be using, and a long wait for the breeze to stop blowing downhill. Then it was blowing up – it was now or never…

…and I aced it. Problem solved. Time for that beer!

The Warner Range runs north-south through the center of Oregon, marking the beginning of the desert. To the west, the land is green. To the east, grassland gives way to bare earth, dry lakebeds, and the bones of dead mountains. Lakeview lies on the west side of the Warner’s, where life is still possible. It’s a remarkable town: a piece of Nineteenth Century America that has survived into the Twenty-First. It is also home to the Lakeview Festival of Free-Flight: a hang glider and paraglider fly-in that has been held every 4th of July since 1990. I’ve attended most of them, and they’re one of the high points of the year.

This year’s Festival did not start well. We arrived Friday to learn that a pilot was missing, caught by the gust front that blasted through the valley that afternoon. Search and Rescue was out, but it was growing dark, and there was cause for concern. They found him the next day, alive but badly injured. The word from the hospital sounded optimistic, but he could have some tough months ahead, so send him your best wishes.

With such a beginning to the weekend, we weren’t feeling very aggressive on Saturday. The consequences were predictable: we got a late start, chose the wrong site, spent the day waiting for good launch conditions, and never got to fly. Meanwhile the pilots who flew Hadley’s Butte, 30 miles to the north, had an epic day. One tries to be philosophical about such things, but philosophy only goes so far. Darn it.

Sunday dawned cloudless and unpromising. With a high pressure system building over the Western US, none of the local flying sites looked good. After looking at the forecast, shaking our heads, and cursing our luck, but we decided to give Hadley’s a try ourselves. If nothing else, it would be a change of scenery.

I’ve never been particularly fond of Hadley’s Butte. The view from launch is lifeless and barren, like the surface of Mars. Launch itself can be demanding, and the lift, on days it is present, can be hard to find. In eight trips to the place, I’d only flown it five times and gotten up twice. Those last two flights might have been awesome, but odds of 2 in 8 did not seem good. On this particular day conditions looked quite dead. I spent some time wondering whether to fly at all, then decided to fly my paraglider. If all I could hope for was a five minute sled ride, I wasn’t going to spend the hours it took to set up and break down a hang glider.

The gods watch… and take note… of decisions like these.

It took forever to sort out my lines, connect up my radio gear, and get my canopy ready. When it was my turn to launch, I mismanaged the brakes when I started my run, and my takeoff was not a thing of grace. Annoyed with myself, I bore right and began following the spine that lead down to the LZ. At least I was flying. And a five minute sled ride was better than no flight at all.

Moments later, my variometer started to beep.

I didn’t believe it, or course. At best, this was just a bubble thermal that would be gone in an instant. But there seemed nothing to lose, so I banked into the lift. A dozen or so turns and I was a 500’ feet above launch! Years of trying to stay up on crummy days – three of them at Hadley’s – have taught me a certain amount of cynicism, and there seemed no way this anomaly could last. Anticipating a flush cycle, I headed toward the LZ, only to encounter another thermal. And another. And another…

After 30 minute’s work, a bit of turbulence, and the occasional tip collapse, I was 1000’ up. To the north, the LZ had become irrelevant – it was clear that I would not be landing any time soon. Beyond it, the desert had acquired that strange beauty deserts have when seen from the air. Behind me, the butte rose in a series of steps toward high ground to the west. To the south, an obvious line of lift stretched across the plateau that lead to the town of Paisley.

I’d been here before, back in 1996. And I knew the route to the south, for I’d flown it two days in a row. That might have been in a hang glider, with much better performance than the wing I was on now, but there seemed no reason not give it a try. With a certain amount of glee – the same kind of glee a child might feel when setting out on a bike ride on Saturday morning – I turned south and headed cross-country.

Cross-country — XC — is thought by some to be the ultimate form of soaring flight. Leaving behind the security of the regular LZ, you set off into the unknown, hoping to find thermals along the way. If you succeed, spectacular flights are possible – the World Open Distance Record is well over 400 miles. If you fail, you have to pick a field, scout it for obstacles, set up your approach, and pull of a landing… on your very first try. Even after you’re down, the adventure isn’t over. Lose radio contact, land too far from a road, and you get to practice your wilderness survival skills. This can be serious business.

This particular day was slow going. It was the first time I’d gone cross country on a paraglider, so I flew conservatively, making sure I always had a safe route out of the hills. This might not have been a formula for covering distance, but it was most certainly a formula for fun. With no serious concerns about landing or retrieves, I was free to practice my thermalling technique, admire the scenery, and gloat at all the luckless pilots who were sinking out behind me. It was also a learning experience. Every move upwind toward safety re-impressed me with the fact that paragliders are slow!

At last I came to the crux of the route – a pair of ridges, cut by a deep river canyon, that I’d have to cross if I wanted to get past Paisley. It would have been easy with my hang glider, but with no real clue what it might be like with a paraglider, I was not about to risk going down in some truly nasty terrain. Tug on the left brake, turn west, and I was headed toward the flatlands and safety.

One makes these decisions with a certain amount of smugness. And with a groundspeed of less than 10 MPH, I had plenty of time to feel smug as I made my way out of the hills. I arrived over the road with 500’ of altitude and a keen appreciation of just how slow paragliders are in any kind of a headwind. This lack of speed makes them quite easy to land. Indeed, landing was fun!

There remained the wilderness survival part of the flight. I faced some serious challenges. I’d lost radio contact with my friends. I was at least 100’ from a well-traveled paved road. I only had a substantial supply of water. And the nearest town was almost two miles away! If no one stopped to give me a ride, it might be a 30 minute walk to the nearest place I could find cold drinks and ice cream! Times like these can try men’s souls… though I must admit they don’t try them very hard

That was not the end of the story, of course. We stayed one more day, headed to one more sight, and I got one more flight, which was as dreadful as it was short. But it’s the good flights that count, and it’s the good one I’ll remember.

That ice cream was good too…

We left the South Bay that afternoon, following the well-worn path to Hull – through the City, across the Golden Gate, up the long road to Ukiah. Until we reached Santa Rosa, the traffic was heavy, but after that, every mile took us farther away from the hustle and turmoil of the mundane world. A pause in Ukiah for fuel and provisions, then we were winding our way east into Coastal Range, along the ever-dwindling succession of roads that lead to Lake Pilsbury. By the time we reached the campsite, night had fallen – time for fiddling with tents, shuffling gear, and some hopeful speculation about what the morrow might bring.

The next morning was gorgeous, but the sky was strange. To the north, Hull was the same as ever, looming above the valley like the lord of some forgotten kingdom, but to the west, an unexpected wall of clouds peered above Sanhedrin – invaders, perhaps, or bearers of some disturbing message. Their meaning was subject of some speculation as we drove around the valley, decided on a landing site, and loaded our gear for the trip up the hill. Whatever this sky meant, it did not seem like an ordinary day.

Unfortunately, it also didn’t seem like I’d be able to fly. I had just recovered from a cold, and by the time we’d reached launch, it was clear I was in no shape for a struggle. If conditions had been mild, I might have given it a go, but they were an thing but mild. With gusts blowing up the hill, clouds boiling with turbulence, and every sign that the air might be stalked by invisible dragons, I decided, reluctantly, to stay on the ground.

One makes these decisions with a mixture of smugness at one’s wisdom and regret for lost opportunities. That evening, as I listened to my friends describe their flights, I felt quite a bit of the latter, for it was clear I’d missed an interesting day. Still, the wine was good, the mountains were beautiful, and the odor of sage was a welcome change from the dust of the city. Also, my lungs seemed to be healing, so I had some hope of flying tomorrow.

The second morning was even more unsettling than the first. Clouds were sweeping in from the north – the wrong side of the mountain – promising conditions that might range from nasty to unfliable. By the time we reached launch, a particularly ominous one had formed directly above the peak: an ugly roll of mist, tattered by the wind, that it was impossible to watch without feelings of concern. I still wasn’t 100%, but I’d come here to fly, darn it, so I unloaded my gear. On the ground, I was a victim, passively accepting my fate. In the air, I might still get hammered, but at least I’d have a chance to fight.

Conversation was more subdued than normal as we set up our wings, and several people elected not to fly. When the first pilot launched, we watched him like penguins watching the first bird into the water, looking for signs of that shark. The air did not look like a terrific amount of fun, but we’d seen and faced, so we followed him, one after another, until it was my turn. My flight plan was simple: I’d get a good strong launch, sniff around in front of the hill, and if I wasn’t entirely happy with what I felt, turn left and flee for the LZ with my tail between my legs.

Conditions were not was bad as I’d expected: a few jolts of adrenaline, perhaps, but no real Sacred Excrement moments. My vario beeped, so I tried a few circles and found that I was going up. But I wasn’t going up very fast. There was a lot of sink mixed in with the lift, which was hardly surprising with the wind at altitude spilling over the top of the mountain to funnel down the canyon. Worse, that wind was drifting me east, over Rattlesnake Canyon. As its name suggests, this is a place of evil legend, to which I had no desire to contribute.

It was time for the part of my plan that involved tails and legs, so I turned left slammed through a few bumps, and scurried down the spine that lead to the airfield. I’d have measured myself against the day and found myself wanting, but hey, at least I’d measured myself. My cowardice might have caused me to miss some excitement, but I don’t fly to have excitement, I fly for the mental challenge, the physical sensation, the glorious view, and to have fun. I reached the strip with 1200’ of altitude to spare, and wouldn’t you know it: my vario was beeping!

With a safe landing zone just a short glide away, there seemed no reason not to work this lift, hang out, and get a bit more airtime. Besides, I was curious where this thermal might lead. A few minutes later, I was 1000’ higher, curiosity unsatisfied. The lift seemed to be building and the sink diminishing. Would this trend continue? With wind blowing from the north on top of the mountain but from the south on the lake, there was every chance that a ‘convergence band’ might form, with air going up over a broad area.

Soon, other people noticed. “Paul, is that a convergence?” called Robert over the radio.

“Yes!” I replied. “It’s great! I’m climbing through 5700’! Get over here!”

An hour later, three of us were above the level of the mountains, flying broad easy laps up and down the east side of the valley. It wasn’t a very good convergence, as such things go, with a top at 6500’, and some spiteful bits of turbulence to remind us to pay attention. But ambiguous though it might be, this was an unexpected gift on what had seemed an unpromising day, and I was determined to enjoy it. I stayed up until I grew tired – this didn’t take very long, given my recent cold – then headed down.

Landing can be food for thought, particularly when a convergence is nearby. There’s always that nagging concern that the bottom of the thing might push though the landing zone, bringing with it all manner of nastiness. So thinking, I planned an approach that left me with several options if the wind started switching or dust devils started cooking off when I arrived. Would this plan have worked? I’ll never know, for the wind stayed smooth, straight, and forgiving from 500’ all the way down to the ground. Landing, was a pleasure, and the air was sweet with the scent of sage.

We forget the details of these flights. Indeed, on mediocre days such this, there may not be many details to begin with. But we remember our feelings of expectation at the beginning of the flight, the hopes, the curiosity, the delight after each minor success. And years later, when everything else is forgotten, we still remember the sage.

Great news: I just learned that the US has made it into the top 50 in science education, narrowly edging out Senegal! With any luck, we should be able to catch up to Greece! We’ve also made it into the top 20 in standard of living, closing in on Finland for that coveted Number Twelve spot! We may remain well behind the Euro area in industrial output and behind Germany in exports, but hey, we’re still the world’s number one producer of ‘coarse grains’! Whatever those are…

All sarcasm aside for a moment… we can do better…

Even as I type these words, they are ‘tenting’ my place for termites. The principle is similar to an airship: enclose a space and fill it with gas. Though in this case the gas is poisonous, the result is heavier than air, and the structure is unlikely to fly unless something has gone dreadfully wrong.

Forewarned, I made sure to get Episode 75 ready before I lost access to my primary computer. But I’ll be heading off to the Lassen region for a major flying trip while I wait for the contractors to finish, so it might not get posted until the wee hours of Monday morning. Stay tuned!

Paragliders are much slower than hang gliders, and much less able to cope with strong conditions, but they do have some advantages. One is the ease with which they can be transported. It is quite possible for someone in reasonable shape to hike up the hill with their gear on their back. Not only is this good exercise, it leaves one feeling smug, virtuous, and morally superior to the ecologically challenged slobs who drive up road in a truck.

At least that’s the theory.

In practice, I’d lost interest in smug virtue by the time I reached the 600’ level, and when a truckload of friends offered me a ride, I was happy to hop aboard and be a slob for the rest of the 1700’ climb. On top of the mountain, things looked promising. It was summer, which usually means stable air and unsoarable conditions here in the Bay Area. But the sky was blue, the horizon was sharp, and the inversion didn’t look too strong, which meant there was a chance for a sea breeze front.

We’re all familiar with the concept. Cool air blows in from the ocean, gets heated by the land, and rises, pulling more air in behind it. (I’ve never been quite sure what happens to the air after it has risen – kidnapped by aliens, perhaps.) This wall of rising air is the ‘sea breeze front’. Here in the Bay Area, it forms near the coast and moves inland as the day progresses, passing through Ed Levin Park sometime between 11 and noon. It was 11 now. And did I mention that the air in a sea breeze front is rising?

By the time I’d laid out my gear, puffs of wind were blowing up the slope. When I looked from launch, I could see a gaggle of vultures climbing as they circled below me. The only thing missing was a voice from the heavens shouting, “Launch now, you dufus”. (Dufus – noun, plural dufii: a person who waits too long to get off the hill). Switch on my variometer, check my harness straps, tug on the risers to get the canopy overhead, kite it for a moment to check the lines, turn, run, and I’m off.

When the sea breeze front pushes past Ed Levin, the best place to look for lift is in front of the 1500’ hill, so I turned left, flew to the shelf in front of it, and made a few passes. The results were disappointing: a few beeps from the vario, but I was losing altitude. The next place to try was the bowl in front of the 1200’ hill. This wasn’t much better, and I’ve always felt nervous getting low over those trees. It seemed today was not my day, so I shrugged – easier to do while seated in a paraglider harness than lying prone in a hang glider harness – and headed out toward the LZ.

As I passed the end of the 1200’, my canopy surged upwards. I didn’t need a vario to recognize this! One s-turn, another, and the hill was below me. Not bad for a summer day! This lift wasn’t steady enough to keep me up, but surely there was more to find. Below me, I could see the windsock on the 600’ hill flicking back and forth as if a thermal was blowing through. This was worth a look.

Seconds later, I was climbing in a nice well-defined core. Life was good. My vario was beeping, the ground was dropping away, and all was right with the world. Well… almost right. In addition to going up, I was also getting pushed downwind. This can be food for thought on an aircraft with a top speed on a par with a Frisbee.

Concerned about losing touch with the LZ, I turned upwind and found myself just barely moving forward. My smugness at anticipating this situation was counterbalanced by a nagging concern that the situation I’d anticipated was not an unmixed blessing. A bit of patience got me back over the 600’ hill into another thermal. Then I was climbing again… and getting swept downwind… again. I could see a pattern here. I could also see that the wind was picking up. This time when I turned upwind, I was almost stationary.

Skilled pilots notice things like this. I notice them too. I’d had my fun, now I was time to head down for a gelatto. I reached the field with plenty of altitude, plenty of room, and plenty of time to set up my approach. There was a bit of traffic in the pattern, but only enough to keep things from getting boring. And landing a paraglider in a smooth steady breeze is a non-event. After I’d toted my canopy over to the parking area, I got to enjoy another advantage of paragliders. With no battens to pull, wing to fold, sail to furl, or control frame to disassemble, you can pack one away in a fraction of the time it takes to break down a hang glider. Minutes later, I was on my way back to town.

And that gelato was delicious!

There are plenty of excellent airship sites on the Web. I’ve listed a few in the List of Interesting Things. Many others remain to be discovered. But if you’ve ever wondered what might have been like to actually ride aboard one of the great airships of the 1920s and 30s, check out this superb Youtube video about the Graf Zeppelin. There’s no way of knowing how long it will be around, for Youtube links can be the most ephemeral of things. But it has some superb views of flight operations, the sound of those engines is priceless, and that couple in their stateroom with a bottle of wine is a glimpse of an entirely different aviation experience from the one we endure in the back row of a 747 Model 400 en route from Amsterdam Schiphol to SFO.

It was another one of those days we been stalking all week, watching the weather forecasts, checking the synoptic maps, tracking the low pressure system as it developed to the northwest. And the sky that morning looked about right: crisp, clear, and bright, with a layer of high clouds sweeping in from the west. The report from the automatic weather station on top of Monument Peak was as we’d expected, with low temperatures and wind from the west-northwest. But… peak gusts of 31 MPH? What was that all about?

It was clearly too windy to fly, but none of us really believed that report. Surely the weather robot was wrong. With the kind of forecasts we’d been seeing, wind that strong just didn’t make sense. So we gathered in the parking lot, consolidated our equipment onto the Crimson Brick, my ancient, venerable (and white) Jeep, and drove up the hill to discover that it was ripping.

In situations like this, all you can do is laugh and wait. Well, perhaps ‘laugh’ isn’t quite the right word. ‘Nervous giggle’ might be more accurate. But conditions were so ridiculous that we just had to stick around to see what would happen. After an hour had passed, the peak gusts were down to 27 MPH. Two hours and they had had dropped from wildly absurd to merely intimidating. Since Mission Peak is fairly tolerant of high wind launches, we decided to give it a go.

I punched off first, prepared to get hammered. I was not prepared to find myself going straight up at 1000 feet per minute with a ground speed of almost zero. The air was smooth, with hardly a trace of turbulence, but the winds aloft were well over 20; so strong that if I slowed down to just above stall speed, I would surely have gone backwards. The thermals were unworkable — shredded to pieces by the wind. In their place, vast convection cells were sweeping across the East Bay, feeding titanic rafts of cumulus clouds miles across. One expects this sort of thing in the high desert. Indeed, it’s part and parcel of the high desert flying experience. To find it next door was unsettling, like coming home to discover that your girlfriend has set up an axe-throwing target in the living room. (THUNK! “Hi honey, you’re home early. How was your day?”)

This was just too weird to miss. Also, I wasn’t in a terrific hurry to attempt a landing in these conditions. So thinking, I set out to explore. (“Cool, an axe-throwing target! Hey, you got another one of those axes?”) It was a character-building experience. Staying up was easy, but one had the feeling of being in the presence of vast invisible forces that wouldn’t tolerate disrespect. As a friend put it, there was never a moment when you could relax and go sight-seeing. But there was no treachery to the day. Whatever hazards it had to offer were out there in plain sight for anyone to see. Getting too close to the clouds would be bad, so don’t get close to the clouds. Getting behind some terrain would be a nightmare, so stay in front of the terrain. Landing as a gust blows through might be a bit too exciting for words, so land between gusts, and save your words for the blog post later

I stuck it out for an hour, then went down to hang out in the lift above a hill near the landing zone. After five or ten minutes of excellent upper-body workout, a cloud blocked the sun, the lift began to fade, and I saw the windsock in the landing zone start to droop. This was my chance. Stuff the control bar, dash out over the LZ, fly a quick left-hand pattern, dive into ground effect, level out, muscle the glider to the ground… piece of cake!

The next day was even better

The first time I saw Edwards Park’s book, Nanette; Her Pilot’s Love Story, I thought, Ho hum, another WW-II fighter pilot’s memoirs. Another collection of scenes like, “Ah saw ‘im comin’ up, so Ah pulled hard left, rolled inta his six, an’ gave him a burst from mah quad 50s!” As a pilot, I’ve grown suspicious of that sort of thing. Did real people actually think that way? All the time? With never a moment of doubt or uncertainty? And were all they so finely focused on the technical details of combat aviation that they never once played around with their aircraft, or glanced at the world outside the cockpit and thought, ”Hey, this is pretty cool!”

Then I took a closer look at the cover of Mister Park’s book and thought, Huh? That’s a P-39? Those were arguably one of the worst planes in history! And the author used the word ‘love’ right here in the title. I had to check this out! Opening to beginning of the first chapter, I read

”Nanette was an airplane. That should be made clear right at the start. She was not a very good plane; actually she stank. But she did a lot for me, I realize, as I look back on her.”

You don’t find treasures like this every day!

Edwards Park writes about the transition of a fairly ordinary man into… a fairly ordinary man who just happened to find himself flying a high performance single-seat combat aircraft in the Pacific Theatre during the early years WW-II. Rather than attempt to impress non-pilots and civilians with his coolness, bravado, and competence, he writes about his actual reactions to what, for a fairly ordinary man, must have been a far from ordinary experience. One of my favorite examples is Park’s description of his first air combat.

“There was a sudden strange sound, a tinny rattling like a barrel of hail on a metal roof. Puzzled, I scanned my instrument panel and saw every engine gauge in the green. I looked out at my wing and then looked again. Something odd there. The smooth contour of my right wing was broken by a sort of cratering effect. What the devil could that be?”

“It was suddenly quite clear what it could be. Bullet holes, that’s what. Those low-life bastards in that bomber had been shooting a machine gun at me, for Christ’s sake! What a savage dangerous thing for them to do!…”

I won’t say more lest I spoil the book for the rest of you. But I urge anyone who’s looking for a superb aviation story — a tale of the Real Stuff rather than the Right Stuff — to check out Nanette, by Edwards Park.

It was a typical post-frontal day at Mission Peak. A low pressure system had pushed through the night before and now the air was cool, the wind was from the northwest, and the sky was filled with an armada of clouds – good soaring weather if we were patient. On days like this, the air at Mission follows a predictable pattern. Morning conditions are light, with moderate winds and thermals. Sometime around 1 PM, a big flush cycle pushes through that can send the careless, impatient, or over-ambitious pilot down to the LZ. After it passes, conditions build and the lift grows stronger, with booming thermals that give way to ridge lift as the wind picks up and shifts the north towards evening.

Like any pattern, this one can vary, and so it was today. The wind seemed a bit stronger than usual, and threatened to turn north, which could mean more than the usual amount of sink. But it was spring, when thermals are big and much is forgiven, so I had high hopes for a good flight.

Launch was easy, like hopping on a bicycle for a ride down a hill. Seconds later, my variometer began to beep and I began to climb. One s-turn, two, and I was high enough to circle. A few cautious 360s and I was above launch, with room to explore. This was one of those days when thermals were marked by clouds. As each column of rising air pushed above the altitude where temperature and dew point came together, the moisture inside condensed into a billowing cumulus – a sight that brings joy to any soaring pilot. Unfortunately, it was also one of those days when the wind was strong enough to blow those thermals apart. The combination was challenging, and it wasn’t always easy to stay in the lift. It took me some time to figure out where to look and to sort out the right combinations of airspeed and bank angles to use, but at last things began to come together and I was able to fight my way up to cloudbase.

By now I felt that I’d taken the measure of the day. Rather than hang around over the peak, I decided to try the standard challenge from Mission and fly four miles south to Ed Levin Park, turn around, and fly home. The trip south – downwind – is usually easy. The trip home can be a bit of a poser. Recognizing this, I began my flight conservatively. Rather than leave lift, lunge toward my goal, and hope to find more lift along the way, I drifted with each thermal, letting the wind push me south. By the time I reached the Ed Levin LZ, I was at 4200’ – well above the 3200’ that usually guarantees getting back to Mission.

With so much altitude to play with, it seemed the trip home would be a piece of cake. And when I did turn back north, the headwind was no more than I’d expected – 10 MPH at most. But gosh I was going down fast! My variometer dial was offscale low, and the ground was coming up at me in a rush. In a matter of minutes, I was down at 2500’, even with the tops of the mountains. Then I was below ridge level, still sinking like a stone. Mission was out of the question, and if I got any lower, I might even lose touch with Ed Levin. This would not do at all! Irate, annoyed, I headed out over a quarry to the west. I would not be so easily defeated!

Work, sweat, and a bit of cursing got me back up to 3200’, but by now I’d drifted south again. My second attempt to head north was even less successful than the first, and I only made it half a mile before I was down below ridge level again. It was clear I was going to be forced down at Ed Levin – an ignominious fate after I arrived there so high. It was also clear that the landing was going to be nasty. The same wind that was ripping the thermals apart was going to fill the LZ with turbulence. I’d landed in these conditions before, and it had never been a terrific amount of fun.

With this in mind, I tried to time my descent. My plan was to reach the ground between gust cycles, when conditions were reasonably sane. And as I set up my approach, it looked like I’d pulled it off. But the Weather Goddess laughs at our plans. When I turned onto my downwind leg, I looked over my shoulder to see a vast cloud shadow looming behind me. A huge convection cell had formed to the north and was sweeping south to engulf the field.

At times like this, all you can do is grit your teeth and prepare to get hammered. Laughter helps, and conditions were so perverse that I just had to laugh. Base leg was an empty gesture, for the air was so turbulent there was no telling what my glide angle would be like. I turned final, crossed the trench, and saw that the wind streamer I’d chosen as my target was flicking back and forth 90 degrees every few seconds. This was not going to be a landing, it was going to be a melodrama! And indeed it was.

As I carried my wing off the field and over to the breakdown area, I realized that I was not alone in my ignominy. All told, four pilots had tried to from Mission to Ed Levin and back. All four of us sank out at Ed Levin. And all four of our trucks were back at Mission.

Oops.

Like all retrieval problems, this one was eventually solved. And like all good recreational flying expeditions, this one ended at a fine restaurant! The days since then have been uneventful, for a high pressure system has moved in, shutting down the thermals at most of our sites. But when I look at the National Weather Service synoptic maps, I can see another low pressure approaching from the west…