STORIES
This airport and the people here played a very important role in my life. I started taking lessons here from Fred at age 12 and soloed at a youth camp in 1970, 1 month after my 14th birthday. It is of the highlights of my life.
Marty Bivens
3-9-08
Soar With Eagles at Crystal Airport's Great Western Soaring School
by Ray Davids
Fred Robinson, himself an early Diamond soaring pilot (SSA #80/FAI #547), started Great Western Soaring School and was the first operator of the airport back in 1967. Fred was born in St. Louis in 1929. His family later moved near the Merrimac River south of St. Louis. Fred says, "One day on the river I was rowing a boat that I built myself and a Fleet biplane, towing a glider, passed overhead - I was stunned, and had to find out where it came from, and started to hang out at Starling Airport. My folks were so alarmed at my desire to fly that they moved us away so I wouldn't hang around the airport." At 17 he joined the US Navy. After he was discharged, then 21, he used the GI Bill to finance flying lessons while he worked as a fireman in St. Louis. He first got a Private Pilot's license in power planes because there was no glider operation nearby at that time. Wanting an education he came west because he heard that schools in California were free for residents; he got a job with Northrop Aircraft as a fireman driving a crash truck.. While at Northrop Fred attended El Camino Junior College in Torrance. It was about that time that he joined the Southern California Soaring Association and learned to fly sailplanes. He added that rating to his pilot's certificate and went on to get his Commercial and Flight Instructor's rating for gliders and his SSA Diamond badge.
Asked what prompted him to start the Great Western Soaring School, Robinson said, " - we ran a little operation down at Agua Dulce in 1962 - a fellow named Gene Hamm and I - we were both engineers at Lockheed. Henry Combs flew with us there. Well, the neighbors didn't like us there so I looked for another place to start a glider operation. I knew that Crystal was here but was not being used - so I went to Richard Blalock and asked him if I could rent his airport and start a glider operation. He said '-well you'll have to clean the roots off ' and he let me use a tractor for that - so I got the airport for $50/month for the 1st year. I started with two gliders and a towplane that I picked up in Denver, a little Supercub. By the end of the year I had six gliders. I had changed jobs from Lockheed to a little company, designing valves that went on the Lunar Orbiter. Then the glider business started booming. I had started it as a weekend operation, but it grew so fast that after a year I quit my job and went full time at Crystal. After the first year, I signed a five year lease and then got it extended again. I got along quite well with Richard Blalock. His son John , who now runs the place, worked as a lineboy for me for a while and his sister Laurie worked in the office."
During these early years from 1967 to about 1975 Great Western Soaring and Fred Robinson trained many of the leading soaring pilots in the United States. Mike Koerner, who holds the American record for straight out distance in a sailplane, 902 miles from California City to Seminole, Texas (without an engine, folks), learned to fly gliders at Crystal as did the entire Koerner family. Mike also was a two term President of the SSA and is still active in the organization. T. Claude Ryan, the designer of Charles Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis plane, flew with Fred, as did John Northrop.
The school and airport became a seedbed for other glider sites as well. Don Slotten, a student of Fred's, went on to open Sailplane Enterprises in Hemet, California. Larry Barrett got his Commercial glider license at Crystal and went on to start Skylark in Elsinore, California and when that was flooded out, opened Skylark North at Mountain Valley Airport in Tehachepi, California. Les Horvath flew with Fred and started up Arizona Soaring at Estrella Sailport in Maricopa, Arizona. Jeanie and Joe MacAdam learned to soar with GWSS and started California City Soaring around 1975, succeeded by Caracole Soaring at Cal City which was started by Cindy Brickner and her husband.. Cindy worked for Fred Robinson for a while and even babysat some of Fred's kids while she was at Crystal. Cindy was recently elected Director of Region 12 of the SSA.
Although Henry Combs has led most of the informally competitive Crystal Squadron long distance flights, it didn't start that way. Fred, reminiscing, said "I'll tell you how that got started: One day at Crystal it did not look like a good soaring day, and there were a lot of pilots there with their (fiber)glass ships; Graham Thompson was one of them. To get them going I said 'OK I'll give $50 to the guy that makes the longest flight out of here', and so they all started and Graham Thompson made it to Phoenix. At the Gold Badge banquet later I gave him the $50 and he offered to match it for the next guy, and that's how those long flights out of here got started." After Fred moved to Crystal, Henry Combs became the leader of subsequent flights at Crystal, joined by any who wished to meet the challenge. The numbers who have joined and met that challenge are legion. In 1995 a group of them got together and established The Henry Combs Perpetual Trophy to be awarded annually to the person(s) completing the greatest number of straight-out Diamond distance glider flights during the previous year. The trophy has been awarded eight times since it was established, the first time in '95 to Henry for his 11 over-311 mile flights that year. In each of the subsequent years up to 2000 the trophy has been won with, successively: 14, 22, 13, 12, and 13 such flights! And these are just the past trophy winners! As of September 9th 2002 the contenders for the trophy have made 47 more such flights this year from Crystal to such destinations as: Austin, Cedar City, Derby, Gabbs, Fallon, Minden, and Yerington, Nevada; Beaver, Hurricane and Parowan, Utah; and Phoenix, Arizona. The two longest have been made by Mike Koerner: 555 miles to Lakeview, Oregon and 495 miles to Orovada, Nevada; Bob Maronde flew 449 miles to Winnemucca, Nevada. And all these flights are made with no engine, no fuel - just the natural atmosphere that nature provides.
In 1975 Fred and his family decided to move to Texas. As Fred tells it, "A.C. Williams (Diamond #160, 1970) in Caddo Mills, Texas, called me and said 'Could you come down and run the glider school for me for a month while Mary and I take a vacation?' and I said sure. So I went there and the next morning after I arrived A.C. said 'I gotta fly up in my Mooney to Schweitzer (sailplane factory in Elmira, New York), would you like to come along?' Of course I went - it turned out it was all set up for me to get a distributorship in Texas for the west from Mississippi to California for Schweitzer sailplanes." Robinson sold the GWSS to Calage Corporation, a group of his customers and employees.
Following Fred's departure, Crystal Airport experienced five successive operators. Calage gave way in 1979 to Gene Jordan, a DC-10 pilot with Continental Airlines, who was succeeded a few years later by Romas Rakauskas, a Los Angeles contractor, who was followed by John Stevenson. In 1993 George C. Watkins, a retired US Navy Captain and fighter pilot, took over the glider operation and called it Crystal Soaring. Mind you, all of these folks may have initially thought they were in heaven to be able to own a business in which they would get to do what they loved - that is, to fly. It took a special talent to run a successful glider operation, and in 1998 Fred Robinson returned to Crystal. In his words: "There were 5 owners of this operation while I was gone and I got it back in '98. Well, now we are in the process of re-creating the GWSS; it's a labor of love for me. I don't intend to ever sell out and retire. When I can't fly anymore, or when I pass on, my living trust is going to pass it on to the employees. "
Judy's intro
We who soar from Crystalaire in the high desert of Southern California believe it is the best year-round soaring site in America. A recent flight on the stormiest day of summer illustrates why.
At noon a woman named Judy arrived with a gift certificate for a half-hour intro lesson. North of Crystal, the Mojave sky was blooming with perfect cumulus five to ten miles apart clear over the horizon. South of us, our normal playground in the San Gabriel Mountains had already overdeveloped, spawning light thundershowers and blanketing the airport in shade.
With other flights scheduled for later, I chose not to wait for an approaching shower to pass. We planned instead to play in the sun and watch from a distance, then come back in when it moved away. Judy was glad for the chance to experience more than an ordinary tourist ride.
After a tow to sunlit ground nearby, we crept along the shadow's edge, steadily climbing in weak lift until high enough to run under a fat cu. There we found a standard 10 knot smoothie, and very soon were two miles above the earth, with cloud base about a thousand feet overhead.
Back at the airport that original disturbance was dissipating as expected - but another one was already rumbling in the hills. Meanwhile, large clouds from other mountains were quickly shading much of the desert in several directions. It was easy to stay high anywhere, so from here on the challenge would be avoiding hazardous weather within practical reach of home.
I elected to go southeast. That quadrant would promise more sun, more lift and more room to move, plus it would keep us upwind of many desert airstrips. Also, if our whole neighborhood closed in, it would lead toward the LA basin (2,000 feet lower, and offering several more non-towered airports).
We were cruising always above 12,000 MSL, in comfortable shade much of the time, never stopping to circle. As Crystal slipped behind on our right, lightning and rain there intensified and the mountains disappeared behind a black wall. We were quite safe, but beginning to realize that this `half-hour' flight would last much longer. Judy was delighted, and I was too, except for a nagging worry that misjudgment on my part could bring great inconvenience later in the day…
Leaving the desert, we soared over a brush fire caused by lightning, and watched the dust of a wicked gust front attacking Hesperia airport. No going there anytime soon! The sky opened across Cajon Pass between the San Gabriel and San Bernardino ranges, but back where we came from direct sunlight was almost gone.
Soon we were beyond all high terrain, at the forming edge of what was now a very big cumulonimbus. Such huge volumes of heated air were rising from the low valleys that we could float above scattered popcorn on the storm's windward margin.
At our furthest point, we had flown half way around it and were now heading west. Below on the right our local mountains were buried in darkness beneath a majestic tower of exploding ivory visible hundreds of miles out at sea. Below on our left lay the street grid of greater Los Angeles, where the highest temperature ever (119 degrees) was being recorded on this day!
We were cool. But could we get home?
Ahead as far as we could see ahead, similar weather grew over all the coastal mountains. We could have continued to run straight across the invisible currents feeding a vast line of storm clouds, but that would eliminate visual contact with our local area. So, reluctantly, we swung around and began retracing our steps.
The deeper we flew back into the desert, the fewer our choices would be. For a while our most convenient landing alternate was Krey Field, a gliderport 17 miles from home. When we could see it again it was shaded, yet remained free of lightning or heavy rain. However, remember that gust front we saw earlier? It had gathered strength, and now was advancing rapidly toward Krey Field. Visions of landing there safely and then being bombed by a violent sandstorm made options less convenient seem more attractive.
We were still cruising above 12,000 feet, having not circled for an hour, when suddenly we could see Crystal again. And EUREKA! It lay in a dry pocket between dark cells. If we hurried, we could be there before the next one hit.
It would not be a direct route, though, because of lightning between here and there. At 100 knots indicated (true airspeed more than 140 MPH), we ran a few miles further north to avoid the squall on our left - and lost no height at all. Then, from twenty miles out and 9,000 feet above the threshold we turned onto a steep final glide. A friendly dirt strip waited four miles closer in case of monster sink, but we passed over it tail high.
As we rolled to a stop, coin-sized raindrops began to pelt the canopy. We tied the bird down and ran for shelter just when the next downpour began. In two or three hours the sky would be brilliant again, thermals beckoning.
We had flown roughly 100 miles in about 90 minutes, from a low start, and circled in only one thermal. Timing, sometimes, is everything. Here at Crystal it's almost always time for some excellent soaring!
dale m, GWSS
Norm Page (2OZ), on his first diamond flight to Gabbs, NV for 2006:
It was an interesting day. In looking over the weather prediction, except for a few possible problems, it appeared like it would be a pretty good day to head north. One possible problem was over development around Inyokern and in an area east of Bishop on up towards Austin and Wells Nevada. Another possible problem was total cloud cover north of Hawthorne and to the east around Elko and Wells. Also, the critical height altitudes along the route were predicted to be only moderately high. 11k at Crystal, 11k in the Kelso Valley, 14k in the Sierras at Lone Pine, 16k at White Mountain, 15k at Boundary Peak, and 12k at Mina. I figured I would go for either Yerington, Fallon or Gabbs with Gabbs being the most likely final destination. Because of the over development that was predicted, I decided that I would probably need to get to Lone Pine by 2p and to Bishop by 4p. Otherwise, I might get stopped by stormy weather. With the weather checked out and Michael ready to drive, I headed for Crystal and rigged my Pegasus.
After launching at about 10:45a, the climb was a bit difficult on the second ridge. Initially I was only able to climb to about 7.5k. After searching around for about 30 minutes, the lift improved and I was able to get to 11k over Mt. Williamson. That was enough to head for Rosemond. At this point, Michael was well ahead of me and was actually most of the way to Rosemond. There was no lift on the way and I arrived at about 6k. That was enough to go to Backus, so I kept going. At Backus I found only weak little thermals to about 6.5k. To the northwest I could see a nice looking cloud street that started somewhere around the Barren Ridge and rand up towards Inyokern. I knew if I could get to it, I could really start moving fast. But at just 6.5k over Backus and the Silver Queen, I wasn't high enough to get to the cloud street. Michael was now up by the Cal City turnoff waiting for me to get going. After about 30 minutes of hanging around the Silver Queen, the lift started improving and I was able to climb up to 8k and head for the little ridge in the center of the Tehachapi Pass. The winds aloft were from the SSE at about 10 kts and I figured that there might be some thermals triggering there. I arrived over the ridge in the Tehachapi pass at about 7k and after searching around a bit, I found lift to 8k which was enough to go for the Barren Ridge.
When I got over the Barren Ridge, I was could see the Cu's were actually a few miles behind the ridge. I was only about 8k and I figured I would need some more altitude to safely get to the Cu's. I wanted enough altitude so that if I hit sink on the way and didn't connect with the Cu's, I would have enough to turn around and get back over the ridge to Mojave. At this point, it was about 12 noon which was still pretty much on schedule. After about 10 minutes on the Barren Ridge, I got some nice lift that took me up to about 9.5k which was enough to head for the cloud street. I connected with the cloud street easily and started cruising for Inyokern at about 11k.
As I approached Inyokern, I could see a rain storm developing around Pearsonville. Michael noticed the storm also and later said that the rain was quite heavy when he drove through the storm and that there was lots of lightening. He said there were several double lightening bolts to the ground. Fortunately, the storm was a little bit out in the valley east of the Sierras. And as it turned out, there were some nice little Cu's west of the main ridge which made it easy to get past the storm. Another pilot quite a distance behind me that had launched out of Tehachapi got stopped by the storm and had to return to Tehachapi. Once past the storm, I cruised under good looking Cu's up to Lone Pine where the altitude improved to about 14k. I arrived at Lone Pine pretty much on schedule at about 2p.
At Lone Pine, I crossed over to the Inyos coming in well above the mountains. However, there wasn't much lift there. So, I continued up towards Independence. Abeam of Independence, the lift got good again and I was able to get back to 14k. From there it was pretty much just cruising under the Cu's up to Bishop and White Mountain. I arrived abeam of Bishop around 3p which was now well ahead of schedule. At White Mountain, I got to 16k which was pretty much the highest point in the trip.
At Boundary Peak, there were some nice Cu's, but the max altitude I could get was only 15k. At this point it was starting to look kind of dark around Hawthorne, so I decided to head for Mina. I could see the cirrus that was predicted to the north and the stormy weather to the east. For awhile, it appeared that storms south of Gabbs might drift north over the airport. After hanging around Mina awhile at 14k, I finally decided that the storms would drift past Gabbs to the east. I then cruised over to Gabbs and went in for a landing. It was only 4:30p and while there was a lot of time to go farther, I didn't think it would be a very good idea since it looked very nasty and stormy to the east and north of Gabbs. There was virga, rain, mammatus, gust fronts, etc. Not very inviting.
After landing at Gabbs, Michael arrived about 30 minutes later. We put the glider away and relaxed a bit while having a beer. We then drove to Hawthorne and had a nice dinner at the El Capitan. After dinner, Michael headed for the blackjack table where he managed to walk away with around $300 by closing time. I think they closed the table because he was winning too much. The next day Michael won another $100 at the Indian casino in Bishop. All in all, it was a really nice trip for both of us. Michael did his gambling at the blackjack table and I did my gambling in the sky with each glide to a safe landing place. As it turned out, all the glides were well above my required safety margin of 2000 feet AGL. Most were several thousand feet above the margin.
Regards,
Norm
TEACHING HOW TO LAND
or
COMMUNICATION AMONG INSTRUCTORS
In 1960 I was 19, when I started soaring in Austria. The club's instructor was a sturdy man. Sturdy was his appearance, sturdy his language and his general behaviour and so was his flying (he had been flying the Junkers Ju 88 bomber in WWII). His way of teaching also was of the rather coarse variety. Sitting in the front seat I never could feel if I had the controls.
Once, asking him how to execute a proper final approach and landing, I was told something about airspeed control by stick, and rate of sink control by divebrakes. Consequently I should have continued asking: `how much rate of sink do you want?'- I did not risk to pose that provocative question, as a minor student you should not undermine the authority of the club's only instructor.
Whatsoever - I finally found out how to do it. My enthusiasm and my basic knowledge from building and flying model sailplanes might have helped quite a bit to succeed as a pilot.
A few hundred flying hours later I got my instructors rating and tried to improve teaching techniques continuously.
Concerning final approach I told my students to aim at a spot short of the desired touchdown spot, steering the plane toward the spot like a kamikaze pilot. Other than the kamikaze we don't want to hit the aiming spot, we'd rather survive and flare out beyond the aiming spot. Keeping a reasonable airspeed on final will ensure a touchdown at a reasonable distance beyond the aiming spot.
My recipe was simple: use stick and rudder to aim at the aiming spot (system `kamikaze') and use the divebrakes like a handbrake to keep the airspeed within reasonable limits. Use one and a half eyes to aim, give the airspeed indicator the remaining one half eye. (To keep it short I'll skip the flare out and touchdown here).
I left my club and got a job as a flight instructor at a famous soaring school in Austria.
Head of the school was Pit van Husen, a prominent personality of European soaring history (decades ago he had taught Hanna Reitsch to fly).
There was Harro Woedl, the top instructor, favourite among students. He was multiple Austrian Champion and an internationally well known competition pilot; later in 1968 he became World Champion.
Another instructor was Gerd Stolle, one of the few surviving pilots who had flown the rocket interceptor Messerschmitt Me 163 in WWII.
And there I was as a young, rather low experienced newcomer. But my students appreciated my way of teaching and soon I was in friendly competition with Harro Woedl. There was a nice and amicable atmosphere among us instructors, but we never talked about teaching techniques. Among all these soaring monuments I didn't feel competent to raise this subject.
In December 1969 I came to California to instruct at Great Western Soaring School.
When Fred Robinson welcomed me at LA International, some of his first words were: `How do you teach a spot landing?'. Enjoying being asked the first time about my teaching techniques, I talked about aiming spot, touchdown spot, kamikaze and airspeed control by divebrakes. Fred looked at me in surprise, got up in an almost solemn way and congratulated me for - back in Europe - having coinvented his personal teaching method.
In perfect agreement we had a good time at Great Western. I especially appreciated the periodical `pilot meetings', where we instructors exchanged our experiences and standardized our teaching techniques.
A year later we got Harro Woedl from Austria to work for us.
Introducing him to Great Western I told him about the importance of standardized instruction within our Soaring school. Especially the way we taught spot landings might differ quite a bit from the way he might had used to instruct back in Austria. When I explained to him the concept of aiming spot, kamikaze and airspeed control by divebrakes he looked at me in astonishment and said: “That's the way I have been instructing all the time!”.
Now it was to me to be astonished: appearently the two of us had to migrate all the way from Austria to California to find out that our teaching techniques were the same.
What a complicated way of communication!
by Walter Kniely, 
an instructor at this soaring school 40 years ago
Norm Page (2OZ) Crystal to Gabbs, NV, Aug 3, 2005
The conditions for the flight up to Gabbs last Wednesday were really good except for around Mojave and California City. It took me around 3 hours to get high enough to go to Inyokern. For the 3 hours, the lift topped out at 7.5k MSL. Not enough to go for Inyokern. At times, I was down to 4k around the Cal City airport. I tried several routes with no success until about 3:30p when I got high enough to go into the Kelso Valley. I then found good lift to about 10k which was enough to go to Inyokern. The rest of the trip was easy and relatively fast. And it needed to be fast since sundown was now a big factor. Because the Inyos didn't look very good, I stayed on the Sierras up to Big Pine where I crossed to the Whites. The altitude has been 17.9 on the Sierras under some Cu's. However, there were no Cu's on the Whites and I was concerned that maybe they weren't working since I was arriving there kind of late. About 5:30p. In addition, I hit big sink approaching the mountains and came in below the top of the spine. Fortunately, I found 7kts up to 17.9 again and headed for White Mountain and Boundary Peak. I left Boundary at 17.9 and headed for Gabbs. My computer said I could make Gabbs, but with just 2000 over the ground for the arrival altitude. With a 70 mile glide or so, I wasn't real happy with just 2000 over the ground. Especially since there were no signs of lift visible ahead. I was hopping to find just one more thermal that could get me another 1000 feet or so for insurance. About 15 miles from Bounday, I got the thermal I wanted and added another 1500 feet to my margin. I hit no lift the rest of the way to Gabbs and arrived there 2.7 over the ground. Between Luning and Gabbs, I hit significant sink that ripped 800 feet off my margin. For awhile I was worried that I might have to land at the Gabbs Strip south of town.
approaching Mt. Whitney
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John Gonzalez (ST) Crystal to Battle Mountain, NV, July 29, 2005:
I took off from Crystal at 9:53 a.m. with many cumulus clouds already forming in the mountains south of the airport. A tow to four thousand feet AGL brought me through very little lift. It took quite an extensive search to locate significant lift. After fifty-two minutes I left the East End of the second ridge at cloud base of 10.5K.
I found lift east of Backus road down at 4.5 MSL. At the early hour, the lift only slowly brought me back up to 6.5K. Numerous small thermals were found allowing me to arrive at Barren Ridge just under seven thousand feet. It was fairly simple getting up and back into the shear line west of the crest. Cloud base was nearly thirteen thousand feet in this area.
The flight progressed up the valley, in the direction of Kelso to Boomer Ridge. Cloud base did not improve and remained at 13K or lower. Lift was sporadic and rough despite cumulus being present. I explained to AB who was travelling by car up the valley,” it is not as good as it looks.”
After crossing over near the switchbacks southwest of Lone Pine, I found very violent lift on the Inyos when low. Cloudbase remained low until Westguard Pass. Fifteen thousand feet was found west of White Mountain peak.
The remaining flight was pretty uneventful until sixty miles out of Battle Mountain. Far out from Battle Mountain, it was not clear what the weather was going to do.
A short time later, it was closing in and Battle Mountain airport became my only alternate. I was already beyond a point of no return for Austin, NV.
To the east, west and north of Battle Mountain, it was dark and raining. Although there were a few ratty cumulus along my course, non-of them were indicators of lift and there were very few sunny spots on the ground.
The mountain range south of Battle Mountain, which lined up with my course to the airport, was not producing any lift. Now, no sun remained. I was on the mountain range’s crest, but planned on passing west of the tall mountain which separated me from the airport. My flight computer indicated I was five
hundred feet above glide, allowing me to arrive above the airport with 2300’ if all went well, but I was still thirteen miles out. My safety altitude above glide had been gradually diminishing since thirty miles out. This would not have been an issue except that the storm cell that I had been eyeing to the west was steadily moving east to cut off my path to the airport. The sheets of rain were now huge streaks in the sky.
I arrived on one small patch of sunlit ground which gave me a few hundred feet. The lift gained was not enough to ease my concern. I had already determined that I would fly close to the approaching mountain, so that I might skirt as much of the rain as possible, and hopefully pick up a little ridge lift from the south wind against the mountain’s small southern facing slope. As the rain began to hit the canopy and gradually built in it’s intensity, I hoped the slope lift would counter act the effect of all the rain drops that where dragging over the glider. All those drops the were now riding on top of my glider and preventing the air from easily passing over the glider’s sleek skin. The droplets were like parasites adhering to my ship. How would this turn out, would I pass though these parasites before they dragged me down?
It is an absolutely incredible experience to have all this input coming into ones brain, digest it, and then watch your decisions unfold in a favorable manner. In addition, contingency plans were being analyzed in the event that it did not work out. Which field looks favorable if I don’t make it to the airport?
After passing west of the last mountains the altimeter slowed its counterclockwise rotation but in the meantime, I had not realized the shift in the wind direction. The wind at Battle Mountain Airport on the ground was blowing twenty-five knots at 120 degrees. I didn’t have the altitude to safely make runway 120 as I was on the East Side of the airport. I informed the power traffic twelve miles behind me I would land on 210 and he questioned whether I meant 120? I replied,”negative landing 210.” Anyway I worked it; it was going to be a long push along the taxiway. The woman operating the unicom was nice enough to tow me in when I asked her if she had a vehicle that I could tie my rope to. She said, “that was a nice crosswind landing.”
NOTE:
Last September with the same crew person, Jeremy Johnson, I abandoned my declared alternate of Battle Mountain twenty-mile north of Austin and returned to Austin, Nv. It had remained a big question mark since that time.
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TLAs VS. MEC
What's in it For You?
From the first moment most of us were exposed to the aviation culture, we have been adrift in a SEA (Seemingly Endless Array) of TLAs. At the very least, our first flight involved a PIC, or if it was a formal lesson, a CFI. If we were lucky they would have directed our attention more to the AOA than the ASI, but unless they were better than most they probably failed to discourage us from staring at the VSI, or in a glider, the ADV (Accursed, Distracting Variometer). That one failing on their part might have led to a VBH (Very Bad Habit) that follows some soaring pilots for the rest of their careers, and brings them prematurely to the ground MMT (Many, Many Times)… Then, when we asked how soon we could get our PPL (Private Pilot License), they should have informed us about the PTS and the MAE (Minimum Aeronautical Experience) requirements embedded deep within the FARs. And by the time we took our PEF (Practical Examination Flights) we would have heard of, if not truly understood, countless TLAs such as: VFR, VOR, VNE, IAS compared to TAS, and even the dreaded METAR - woops, that's an FLA! (Five Letter Acronym).
By now, unless you really GNC (Got No Clue), it should be obvious that by TLA, we mean `Three Letter Acronym'. It is often said that for any two syllable concept, a typical pilot would prefer to use a TLA instead - just `cause it sounds so cool.
Of course there is more than one kind of TLA. What about that other, smaller SEA of Two Letter Acronyms, such as: CG, CL, TI, TE... Please, let's not even GT (Go There)!
It is hereby proposed, with tongue stuck FIC (Firmly In Cheek), that henceforth WOP (We Ordinary Pilots) speak of ordinary things with ordinary words Whenever We Can (WWC), in the eternal hope that we might better please our stern but beneficent Glider Operations Director in the sky, and thereby achieve More Effective Communication, In The Air (ITA) and On The Ground (OTG).
Night before Christmas - Aviation Style
'Twas the night before Christmas, and out on the ramp,not an airplane was stirring, not even Champ.
The aircraft were fastened to tie downs with care,in hopes that come morning, they all would be there.
The fuel trucks were nestled, all snug in their spots,With gusts from two-forty at 39 knots.
I slumped at the fuel desk, now finally caught up,
And settled down comfortably, resting my butt.
When the radio lit up with noise and with chatter,
I turned up the scanner to see what was the matter.
A voice clearly heard over static and snow,
Called for clearance to land at the airport below.
He barked his transmission so lively and quick,
I'd have sworn that the call sign he used was "St. Nick".
I ran to the panel to turn up the lights,
The better to welcome this magical flight.
He called his position, no room for denial,
"St. Nicholas One, turnin' left onto final."
And what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Rutan-built sleigh, with eight Rotax Reindeer!
With vectors to final, down the glideslope he came,
As he passed all fixes, he called them by name:
"Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacun!
On Comet! On Cupid!" What pills was he takin'?
While controllers were sittin', and scratchin' their head,They phoned to my office, and I heard it with dread,
The message they left was both urgent and dour:
"When Santa pulls in, have him please call the tower."
He landed like silk, with the sled runners sparking,
Then I heard "Left at Charlie," and "Taxi to parking."
He slowed to a taxi, turned off of three-oh
And stopped on the ramp with a "Ho, ho-ho-ho..."
He stepped out of the sleigh, but before he could talk,
I ran out to meet him with my best set of chocks.
His red helmet and goggles were covered with frost
And his beard was all blackened from Reindeer exhaust.
His breath smelled like peppermint, gone slightly stale,
And he puffed on a pipe, but he didn't inhale.
His cheeks were all rosy and jiggled like jelly,
His boots were as black as a cropduster's belly.
He was chubby and plump, in his suit of bright red,
And he asked me to "fill it, with hundred low-lead."
He came dashing in from the snow-covered pump,
I knew he was anxious for drainin' the sump.
I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,
And I filled up the sleigh, but I spilled like a jerk.
He came out of the restroom, and sighed in relief,
Then he picked up a phone for a Flight Service brief.
And I thought as he silently scribed in his log,
These reindeer could land in an eighth-mile fog.
He completed his pre-flight, from the front to the rear,
Then he put on his headset, and I heard him yell, "Clear!"
And laying a finger on his push-to-talk,
He called up the tower for clearance and squawk.
"Take taxiway Charlie, the southbound direction,
Turn right three-two-zero at pilot's discretion"
He sped down the runway, the best of the best,
"Your traffic's a Grumman, inbound from the west."
Then I heard him proclaim, as he climbed thru the night,
"Merry Christmas to all! I have traffic in sight."
Thanks to Kevin Shaw
----------------------------------------------------------------
OVER THE RAINBOW
Imagine yourself far up within the perfect sky, sailing dreamlike. Bathed in a crystal sea of shattered light is moving bliss. Silently you wheel and spin , dive and climb. Time is lost, you soar…
Off across the airy vault of cloudmass conceals with cottony innocence the dark ferocity of a fresh South Wind, and the hard presence of the San Gabriel Mountains. Steep rocks and golden trees peer from beneath their moist and impermanent disguise, while up here, in an ancient fantasy finally lived, you find at last the sweet peace of the Eysian Fields. This is the high breath of the good planet Earth.
Countless forgotton generations have dreamed idly of such a winged adventure, and now is the time. This place is as real as your doorstep, and your experience of it can be too.
Drifting leaves aswirl fitfully under the metal roof at Great Western Soaring School. Blustery and bleak, it's naked cold day in late autumn, orange and red. Before the canopy shuts, chill cuts like scalpel from the propwash of thePiper Pawnee. Soon all of this will be forgotten.
A long strand of narrow rope comes taught, and in seconds you are airborne, floating lightly on tow. After rising in severe turbulence to about mountaintop level (cloudbase), you suddenly punch through into a higher jpassage of smooth laminar consistency. Near eternal myth, it is the elusive realm of Aeolus, today found and proven.
Impassive in the lead of its attendant Pleasant View Ridge and Mount Baden Powell squats athwart the endless rage of weather like an aged but still ruling monarch. Its wall creates the simplest of mechanical devices, an inclined plane.
Blast as may the wind, it does little to the mountain save groom it. But the air is compressed as it courses up the slope, and when it clears that precipitous headwall north, it becomes a gigantic gaseous cascade. Thence, like a brook over a stone, an atmospheric wave occurs, an undulation of flow that can be used as free energy many thousands of feet above the highest point of land.
It is here you release the tow, in the eerie quiet of a new frontier. Billions of benevolent mindless molecules surround and support a graceful craft of motion. They and their properties of behaviour are your medium of exchange. Only altitude to lose, and the very heavens to gain.
Do so. Face the wind (and the mountain), and match its speed. Fly at fifty to hover unheard over the desert , and the clouds fall subtly away as you ascend hundreds of feet each minute. A glad beneficiary of nature's titanic indifference, you're lofted up and left to play. With wits as means, set sail.
Its as you please from here to touchdown, with but one crucial expedient:
STAY UPWIND! Not far to the lee is the backside of the wave, and as ever, what goes up must
come down.
By tacking along the breast of this vast surge, you may travel at will perpendicular to the direction of wind. In this manner from Crystallaire, Big Bear and the San Bernadino Mountains are mere minutes away. So in fact, the sky is the limit. Shoulders and waist strapped tight, butt in a bucket, you are bound to a bulky contrivance that was drawn from within the earth, yet do it right, and you'll be freer than ever was any slave of gravity before our age of knowledge unchained.
Frigid church at ten thousand feet, and in this season, frozen toes Terminate the flight all too soon.
Inevitable descent into fall's florescent splendor can be made cradle easy of racked with aerobatics and speed. You, with a global energy at hand, in command of your ship and your destiny.
Sport? Art? Science?
Yes, all these and more.
Two heathen elements, wind and a mountain, conspire to offer us the angelic skill of free flight. To frolic in the sky. Limitless blithe harbor to the concious, immense room wherein to act as crown of creation, there is no end to this inverse abyss before the face of earth itself.
How better to exercise the awful gift of noble liberty than to suspend one's self deep within the great common day by dint of that most inscrutible power, th e human intellegence? In sunlit living sky, a dance within the moments to joyful safe return.
Beats a heart there overhead? It could be mine. Or yours instead!
Express to come, and know the cloud as fellows.
RSVP
>>>>>>>
From Daniel Koneck (Delta Kilo) August 21, 2004:
Hey guys,
I thought you guys might like to add onto the story
column you have on the website.
I flew from Crystal to Boundary Peak and then back to
Bishop on 8-21. I tried to get to Gabbs (diamond
distance), but the weather was horrible. I went
through about 5 minutes of pure hail and then rain
after that just getting to Boundary Peak. I looked
out towards Gabbs and saw nothing but dark sky in
front of me. I was at 15,500 (cloud base) and with
that altitude, I could make Mina but not Gabbs.
Looking towards Mina I saw blowing sand on the ground
and virga all in front. The guys that did make it to
Gabbs were about 45 minutes ahead of me...that made
all the difference in the world. I wish I had better
than my 38:1 sometimes. I turned Boundary Peak and
flew towards White Mountain Peak (now in the sunshine)
and hit incredible sink all the way to the peak. It
looked as if I wasn't going to clear the peak of the
mountain, so I turned towards the valley more. Right
then I hit the most incredible thermal I have ever
been in. My 16 knot electric vario was pegged!!! I
timed it and got a rough estimate of 3000 fpm!! I in
less than 2 turns I had to level out and get out of
there, otherwise I would have been through the clouds.
After that, I flew towards Bishop AP and back through
pouring rain and pounding hail all over again. The
hail was so bad, I could feel my control stick shaking
around because the ice was pounding my control
surfaces! It was so loud in the cockpit I couldn't
hear anyone on the radio. All of a sudden everything
went white and I realized I was flying through thick
virga for about 30 sec. (I wasn't in the clouds). I
finally got into valley and nicer air. I was about 8
miles away from Bishop (10,000 feet) and sinking like
a rock (as if my spoilers were open). I looked out at
my wing and saw a nice little build up of ICE all down
my wing. Not long after I realized I had ice on my
wing, I was back into sun light which defrosted my
wings in a matter of seconds. I finally got to Bishop
AP no problem, disassembled my glider and drove back
that night.
All though I never made my diamond distance that day,
I had the best time and overall I learned more on this
flight than any other I had been on. It was
incredible! Just a reminder for all those who are
planning to fly up in the Sierra Nevada and White
mountains, beware of the bad weather. It changes from
sunny to thunderstorms in a matter of SECONDS!!!
Good luck and be safe!
PS:
I forgot to mention that before crossing over to the
Inyo mountains (which I was forced to do because of
the weather) I looked at Mt. Whitney and to my
amazment, it was SNOWING on the peak! In the middle
of August, I saw snow falling!! That was amazing!! ]
This whole story proves that you do not have to get
your diamond distance or 1000km to have a GREAT
flight! I learned so much on this flight! I'm glad I
didn't continue on to Gabbs (I'm sure I could have
made it and got my diamond) but I would have had a
hell of a time taking my wings off in blowing sand and
pouring rain. Instead I got take my wings off in
light winds, eat dinner in a nice restaurant, and go
home that night.
Awesome, awesome, awesome!!
Daniel Koneck
"DK"
INTRODUCING the ORGANIC VARIOMETER
(See also Soaring Magazine, August 2004)
Warning: the following is considered absolute heresy by most glider pilots - the good ones and the not so good, alike. If you prefer wasting money and not having as much fun as you could, then do not read this article; it might change your way of thinking and liberate you from dependence upon artificial contrivances that have nothing to do with the joy of soaring.
One day nearly thirty years ago, during my rookie season in soaring, I noticed our regular tow pilot disconnecting the instruments of the club single seater. When I asked him why, he smiled brightly and said that this was his rare chance to do some real soaring, and he didn't wish to be even tempted to waste time looking inside the cockpit. A few minutes later I watched from the ground as he thermaled up inside of a gaggle, climbing past several other ships, and became the first pilot to soar away out of sight, gone for the day. Right then, I promised myself, “I will learn to fly like that guy.” It has taken a lot of trying, but I wouldn't trade the experience for a fortune in fancy hi-tech instrumentation, or a hatful of badges won with money rather than dedication and skill.
The typical instrument panel for a modern sailplane costs several thousand dollars. It is very sophisticated and complex, and although it cannot always be trusted, it tends to become a crutch its proud owner can scarcely do without.
I favor an alternative called the `organic variometer'. It costs nothing, it is self-calibrating, and best of all, it's easy and fun to use. Unlike the many mechanical and electrical instruments available at high prices, the organic variometer utilizes information of several kinds combined in real time. And, while audio varios only allow you to keep your head out of the cockpit (which many of their owners still seem not to do), my organic model requires you to. That itself is a terrific safety feature!
Of the several elements that make up an organic vario, any one may be more useful than the others in particular flight situations. Therefore, the sequence in which we discuss them should not be taken as an order of importance. (They are all important, that's the point.)
First, we have the `seat of the pants'. Folks have been using this term since the earliest days of aviation, and it's really as simple as it sounds: feel for changes in pressure between the sailplane's seat and your own. Increasing pressure means more lift or less sink, and decreasing pressure means the opposite. Here technophiles will protest that mere turbulence confuses the issue - but no, turbulence is itself another dimension that enhances the basic up-and-down data, its rhythm giving truly observant pilots even better means of discerning whether a momentary indication of lift is the real thing or just a patch of atmospheric junk.
We've all heard since our first days in soaring that when one wing rises we should turn toward it. Little is said, though, about changes in control response. Perhaps you've started a turn but it doesn't develop as quickly as you expected; this is evidence that the lift is stronger than you thought, and you should turn more aggressively. Or if suddenly the ship is turning much easier and steeper than you expected, then the lift is stronger on the other side. (This can be detected through aileron or rudder - or through both at once.) Or perhaps you've encountered sink and begin pushing over to gain airspeed, but nothing much happens. This means that the sink is worse than you thought, and more forward stick is necessary - NOW - not later, after your computer screen says “PUSH”.
Next, drag your eyes for a moment away from your flight director, your GPS and your whizbang whatsit, and look outside at the non-virtual landscape that surrounds you. You can actually learn to see whether you are going up or down by comparing how things look now to how they looked a moment ago. This works best when you're low or flying near high terrain, and especially when gaggling with birds or other sailplanes. High above a flat landscape it's a bit more difficult, but is still possible. Imagine you're sitting on a park bench looking at the grass, and then stand up - you can see the grass drop away, and when you sit back down the grass comes closer again. Perception such as this from several thousand feet up is very subtle, but it can be learned if you make a conscious effort.
Your eyes can do more for you than simply replace exotic avionix; they can also tell you where you are. I was up once with a fellow soaring pilot who happens to be a world record holder, and we stumbled into some surprise wave. His immediate reaction was: “Damn, we don't have a GPS to mark where this lift is.”
“Well,” I answered, “if you look down, you can see we're directly above the intersection of two major highways.” Call me old fashioned, but it seems that if you need a GPS to tell you where you are, you are lost! (For calculating altitude needed to begin a long glide, I make up distance tables like those in an atlas, tying together all important points in a general soaring area. Typed out on both sides of a recipe card and laminated, one such table covers thousands of square miles, costs something less than a dollar, and is quicker and much easier to use than a GPS.)
Your ears also can provide more than one kind of valuable information, but most conspicuous is the sound of air passing by the cockpit. For any given speed the sound is steady, but then will become louder when rising currents strike the sailplane from below. Conversely, if you're holding constant speed and the sound becomes quieter, you know you just flew into sink - or weaker lift. The core of a thermal can easily be heard in this way, and you can make appropriate adjustments of attitude sooner than with the most expensive variometer on the market. (This information may be completely unavailable if you insist on listening instead to some kind of electrical noisemaker, so it's best to turn that annoyance off and save battery power for something important, such as communication.)
The inner ear also provides useful sensation, though it is far less obvious. The head of any good pilot is of course continually turning and moving all around, and this distorts inner ear information. But during those sensitive moments when you're nosing into possible lift it might pay to hold your head quite still for a few seconds and concentrate on just exactly what you feel in those delicate organs on each side of your head. Guarantee: it will not work for you unless you try it.
But wait, the organic variometer offers even more! Your sense of smell can be very useful at times, especially in spring, summer, and fall. Let's say it's May, and you're gliding down, wishing you could find some lift. If suddenly you smell flowers, turn into the wind and follow the fragrance UP! Or maybe it's July and you smell cow manure: time to climb. (Though not so aesthetically pleasing as an aroma of spring blossoms, there are few thermal sources more reliable than a farmer spreading manure - so long as the sun is shining on that particular field at the time.) Then in October, the scents most apt to indicate lift are those of burning leaves or grass stubble. This brings us to the many other odors that arise from the often smelly `hand of man'. Whether fumes from traffic, factories, dumps, or other more noxious sources, smells of any sort, detected aloft, generally indicate soarable lift. The more they stink, the stronger your motivation to climb fast and get away.
Now, how about your sense of … imagination? Yes, you can use creative thought to combine all these sensory resources, and to interpret what they tell you. Think like a bird. Think like an air molecule. Think like a soaring pilot who does not need to be told by a machine what to do. Think for yourself! It can be very gratifying stuff.
Okay, we've covered touch, sight, sound, and smell - and even imagination. So, what about taste? Forgive me if you must, but a good way to develop your organic variometer is to cultivate a DIStaste for other, more costly, less satisfying means of information gathering. Shut those electric gizmos down and go fly for a while. Just you and the sky. Using natural information in this way puts you more directly `in touch' with the air through which you are floating. It's fun, it's challenging, and it will reward you with confidence in your own judgment, your own abilities, YOURSELF.
The organic variometer, after all, is YOU. Good luck, and have fun!
Dale M
MY FAVORITE FLIGHT
After 28 years in soaring, my most memorable and satisfying flight occurred this last July, during our ten-day session flying out of Lone Pine. The flight was made even more special because the student in the front seat was my wonderful girlfriend, Ruth Cook. Of course I jinxed us beforehand by saying more than I should. It looked like a perfect day for a long flight, so I mentioned to someone on the ramp that (with no crew) we would try for a 500 mile circuit. Big mistake.
We took the usual tow east of Lone Pine airport, up onto the southern end of the Inyo Mts. After an initial gain of 200 feet, we couldn't seem to find any more lift, and began working our way, very gradually, DOWN the slopes and closer to a relight. Apparently we just took off too early, for as we continued to dig lower and lower, others towed up to our release point and soared away.
We suffered through many short climbs followed by slow descents - and ever-warmer cockpit temperatures. At our low point we were a mile from the airport, 800 feet above the ground on an extended base leg before scratching back up. Slowly, we sneaked across the valley floor to the Alabama Hills, making several more false saves, and even committing to a couple of final glides that were interrupted by weak thermals. We had been in the air well over two hours now, and were growing not only discouraged, but tired, too. Giving up became a temptation, but was not yet an option. Then, working the weak periodic bubbles above those famous rocks where all the western gunfights were filmed, we finally got high enough to crawl onto the lower buttresses of Lone Pine Peak.
Suddenly it was a good day. From the very bottom of those monstrous vertical ridges, we enjoyed tight little cores of eight knots or better and whooped it all the way up to 10- or 11,000' MSL (still far below the mountaintops). Perhaps the whooping was another jinx, but by now the cockpit was cooling down, and we were believers again.
At that height the convection shifted gears in some way, making it difficult and time consuming to catch even better lift still waiting above us. So, as is done many times in the Sierra, we simply floated northward along the east faces of the range, trolling for our best chance to climb on up at last. We had probably gone more than thirty miles before ever really topping out, and by then it was time to angle back across the Owens Valley onto the White Mts.
After that we took a standard mid-summer cruise, high and dry, to a turn point north of Mt. Grant (NW of Hawthorne, NV), and then south back to Boundary Peak.
We arrived at Boundary slightly below the 13,000 foot peak, but with total confidence. The movement and shapes of the clouds, and our drift on course, indicated that we would have the benefit of a west wind combining with the western sun exposure. What we found near the mountain, though, was a significant EAST wind - and downslope sink!
By now it was early evening and 90 miles remained to our destination. Bishop, the nearest airport, lay only 35 miles away, but we were no longer sure of reaching it unless we could find a way out of this sink. Our earlier struggle had been primarily a stick-and-rudder challenge of thermalling near the surface for three solid hours, but now, for the first time on this flight we had to quickly analyze what was happening and imagine a solution.
Our theory: We KNEW there was a westerly out in the open valley, and if we could find where it met with the easterly we were in, there ought to be a shear line…
Call it luck, brilliance, or karma, but we found it where we looked. And then, right on time, two teensy clouds began cycling on a line between our position and Bishop. We worked our way south in spotty, short-lived thermals, but ever further west from those White Mountains that we had counted on for a guaranteed return. Our ground speed deteriorated too, yet still there was hope. The shear line led on southwest to a point between Bishop and Coyote Flats, but after that it would be no help in getting us home. So we topped out and bet everything we had on a straight glide southeast to Black Mt (the fourth time we crossed the Owens Valley on this flight.), knowing we could afford to fail there and still retreat to safety at Bishop.
Reaching Black Mt. exactly at its summit, we flew a few figure eights in zero sink before beginning a feeble climb. Ruth heated up the radio while I clawed away at the controls. (We thought there might be time for a retreive tow if necessary, that night, rather than in the morning.) All the cumulus were gone now, the valley was mostly shaded, and we were estimating maybe another half hour of usable thermals over the highest sunny slopes. Eventually our thermal strengthened with height, and soon joined with one from the other side of the hill. Back in the game! Yet we were still more than fifty miles from Lone Pine, and needed to climb several thousand feet higher before we could even think about a final glide. Once Independence was in the bag, however, we decided to resume breathing.
Usual thing: the finish was anticlimactic. Our miracle lift weakened, so we departed on final glide while still a thousand feet below the required altitude. We knew we could do no worse than seven miles short at Manzanar, and there would 'almost certainly' be some last scraps of lift along the way. There were. In the end, we glided home in style and had to burn off lots of 'fuel' before landing. Altogether, we flew a bit more than 500 Kilometers (not quite 500 miles, huh?) and, as always, the sweetest parts to remember are the toughest parts.
There have been countless difficult flights, but after this one I actually knelt down and kissed the Earth. The earth didn't kiss me back, but Ruth did!
Dale M
Here is an e-mail from Norm Page:
Hi Fred,
Here are the details of the flight to Winnemucca last Saturday.
It was the best of the year. The hardest part of the flight was the climb at Crystal. I released a little too low. 2.8 AGL. I got down to 2.3 AGL before I found weak lift. However, after slowly climbing for about 30 minutes at 1 to 2 kts the lift got a lot stronger at about 7.5 MSL. 6 to 7 kts up to 13.5 over Williamson. From there I did a straight glide to over the ridge N of Tehachapi where I started getting up to 13k. The Cu's started in the Kelso Valley and it was easy up to Cinder Cone. At that point I angled towards the Inyos and came in over Sierra Gordo at about 8.5. Without circling, I started up the Inyos climbing all the way arriving abeam of Bishop at 17.9. It was then on to Boundry staying at 17.9k. From there, I headed for Gabbs via Mina. However, as I neared Mina I noticed a cloud street going over towards Hawthorn that then went N towards Fallon. So I decided to see if I could get high enough for Yerrington and then maybe go for Fallon. Everybody else seemed to be going for Gabbs and Austin. I really don't like the dirt runway at Gabbs and Austin is pretty poor for places to eat and stay. Also, it is also a long drive for the Crew and not much extra distance for the flight. So I decided I would try for Yerrington which has a lot of good places to eat and stay. After going along the cloud street for awhile, it became obvious I would be able to make Fallon. So I kept going and arrived at about 8.5k. Just N of Fallon, there were some pretty big Cu's that looked like they were about to dissipate. I headed for them and got good lift up to about 16k. That was enough for Lovelock Derby. On the way to Lovlock Derby, I was able to get to 17.9k and decided to see if I could get to Winnemucca. N of Lovelock in the direction of Winnemucca, the lift was starting to fall apart and I was just barely able to get high enough to go for Winnemucca. It was about 55 miles away and I was at 15.8k. The glide turned out to be a final glide with no lift on the way and an increasing head wind as I lost altitude. At times there was 3 to 4kt sink . I went at best L/D with a little added in for the head wind. All day I had been cruising really fast and now I was going only 60 to 65 kts. It seemed like I was never going to get there. Winnemucca looked so far away and high on my canopy. Finally as I neared the ridge SW of Winnemucca, I could see I was going to make it with a good margin. Although for awhile, I wasn't sure I could clear the ridge. As I got close I could see I could clear it easily and and ended up arriving at 7.5k over the airport. That is about 3.2k AGL.
Here are some great pictures Norm took going to Winnemucca:
SPOILED
By John Stickelmaier
I am so spoiled. There was a time when I would thermal on any little bump. As long as I was showing progress, I would be ecstatic and stick with it. Lately, if I hit a bump, and the vario doesn't show a solid 200 feet per minute, I'm not interested.
In the early 80's, I was a teenager flying 1-26's out of Rosamond, California. This was in the extreme western part of the Mojave desert; right next door to Edwards Air Force Base. In fact, the base leg for runway 25 was less than a mile from the restricted air space.
Bill Aronson ran a wonderful FBO at Rosamond. Besides being an all around nice guy, he had a 1-26 for rent, along with cheap tows. I used to fly almost every weekend; as often as I could bum a ride with other glider guiders from Los Angeles.
After I got my Private glider rating, I set up a small imaginary 15 mile triangle around Rosamond. On every flight in the 1-26, I would head to the nearest corner and attempt to complete the triangle. Two laps would equal silver distance. I had figured out the minimum altitude needed to get safely back to the airport. This was actually not as simple as one might imagine. You see, Rosamond is just east of the pass from the San Joaquin Valley into the Mojave Desert. In the afternoon, when the rest of the desert was cranking up thermals, Rosamond would get hit with 15 knot winds. If you figure out the final glide ratio for a 1-26 in a 15 knot wind, and add a little sink, you realize even a small triangle requires a lot of altitude. Typically, I would release and head up wind; rarely being able to penetrate the wind with enough altitude to make the first turn point. Often, I would start off thermaling up wind of the airport, but when I topped out, I would be back over the airport. Some days were better than others. I could usually make a few flights every season where I'd accomplished the first two turn points. During this time, Paul Bikle was flying from Rosamond in his modified HP-11. After we both landed, I would ask him how he did. He would invariably say something like, " Oh, I just went (40 miles) to Gorman and back."
Today I am flying out of Crystal, near the infamous El Mirage dry lake. Fred Robinson runs a nice operation there, The Great Western Soaring School. Crystal is a sharp contrast from Rosamond. Crystal sits against the north side of the San Bernardino mountains that separate LA from the desert. The mountains protect Crystal from the high winds I frequently experienced at Rosamond, and also provide year round soaring; slope and wave in the winter, desert thermals in the summer.
But Crystal is where I have become spoiled. It's been twenty years since my fun at Rosamond. But today, I am able to rent a very nice Grob Astir with nearly twice the performance of the old 1-26. At a little over a thousand feet above pattern entry, I can still be 5 miles from the airport and not be concerned with making it back. What a great plane. What a great gift from Fred to let me rent this steed (And from the owner, Tim, to let others fly this beautiful machine).
But like I said, I have gotten spoiled. Last week I did a quick hop to get back in shape for the coming season. I towed towards the mountains looking for some early spring thermals. The wind was light, so this wasn't a wave or ridge day. But the sun was warm. On an earlier dual checkout flight, I had spotted some birds circling, so they had found something. As I approached the second ridge, I reached my release altitude of 3000 feet. Automatically, I looked around for traffic and pulled the tow release. I was lazy. It turned out I was still a half mile away from the ridge. This early in the day, the thermals are usually strongest over the ridge, but here I was, off tow early, having to use precious altitude to reach the thermal producing ridge. I lost a few hundred feet reaching the ridge. Now I only had about 600 feet of altitude to find decent lift before having to start heading back. As I flew over the ridge, I felt the bubbles, but never saw anything worth while. I tried to circle in what lift I found. Did the circling produce a net gain? I don't remember, I was more concerned with getting blown away from the airport, and keeping my turns coordinated. In short order, I was down in altitude and had to start heading back to the airport. On the way back, I felt some more bumps, and even tried circling a few times, but to no avail. I guess I had already written off this flight and conceded it was time to land.
On the drive home, I was thinking about this flight and determined I have become spoiled these last few years. The flight had some goods points: I had become current again; even when I got a little frustrated and couldn't find suitable lift, I had stuck to my predetermined altitudes to head back to the airport. Except for the early tow release, I had made good decisions and was flying conservatively. However, I decided next time not to release until I get to the second ridge; even if this takes me a little above my planned release altitude.
Not bad for the first flight of the season. I'm happy.
An e-mail from Norm Page: Tuesday, March 18, 2003.
My flight last Sunday was an enjoyable one. I towed to 1500 ft above ground level and released just W of the airport. I climbed to 7K and headed for the mountains...arrived over the west end of Pleasant View ridge at 7K and climbed under the cu's there. I found weak to moderate wave and was able to climb higher than most of the cu's around. I eventually made it to 15.8K
After exploring around for higher lift and taking pictures, it started to cloud up below...so I pulled full spoilers, lowered the nose, cranked up the speed and headed down. Initially, I was descending better than 20 Knots, but then I must have flown into some terrific lift because my descent speed diminished to only one Knot. It made me feel that my varios weren't working.
After getting below the clouds, I headed for Crystal. There was so much lift around, I had to keep my spoilers out to keep from climbing even though my speed was high.
The air around the airport seemed pretty rough, so I checked the wind and traffic and quickly entered the pattern and went in for a landing on 25. Because the air was rough and there seemed to be quite a bit of wind, I kept the approach speed at 75 Knots. There was quite a bit of wind shear near the runway which was easy to handle with the extra speed.
The touchdown was smooth and I pulled full spoilers for the rollout. I was glad to be down.
As I unbuckeled, I reflected a bit on what an exciting and interesting flight it had been. It is not often you can take a 1500 ft tow and climb to nearly 16,000 ft...especially this time of year.
CLIMBING ...IN REVERSE
It was a windy Sunday morning in the middle of winter and, coming down from a high, seemingly wasted tow, we could feel wicked turbulence just below us as we crossed the last canyon before reaching the flats. There was 'almost certain' slope lift at the canyon's upper end where the ridges met, but going in there head first seemed like a risky idea because of the possibility of heavy sink.
Instead, we turned into the wind and flew slow S turns, letting the strong wind drift us gradually downstream, up the canyon, backwards, to the ridge behind us. It worked, and got us high enough to reach some wave on the other side of the mountains, and a nice climbing run, high and dry, before a 40 mile final glide. Cross-country in the winter, gotta love it!
- Bill Henchy
GROUND EFFECT TO THE RESCUE !
A true story: Way back in 1962, flying out of Agua Dulce in an LK-10A...Trying a cross country. There was an airport at Quartz Hill and I needed to land. From about 500' agl, I realized that I wouldn't make it!
At the time, I had recently worked on a design of a "Ground Effect" flying machine. AH-HA!
I put the nose down, picking up all the speed I could until I was flying just above the bushes.
I not only made the runway, I had to open the airbrakes to stop before the other end of the runway.
Fred Robinson
NEVER GIVE UP
A few years ago when Pete Berkson was still a student pilot, we were headed home, south on the Sierras with over a hundred miles to go, and got stuck on the half-mile cliff below Lone Pine Peak. After a half hour of scratching back and forth by the same hanging boulder, it started to 'look' hopeless, and he suggested we could just land at the airport there and walk to a motel. My response was, "we may need to, but we don't have to yet. It's only 4:PM and we're soaring in Paradise. Let's just keep flying our best and see what happens." He didn't really believe me then, and I wasn't so sure I did, either, but we kept on trying one little twist after another.
Well, a half hour later, we were finally on top again, and ended up cruising home with an achieved ground speed of over a hundred miles an hour.
But this story doesn't end there. When we were still about 50 miles out we hit the marine air and it looked like no more thermals to be had. Under the very last little cumulus, though, we stumbled into an invisble shear. By that time in his flying career Pete already had demonstrated unusual talent for following shear lines. That evening, he held us at 11,500 feet for a solid 25 miles before our blue street finally ended. From there it was one of those sweet, smooooth glides the final 25 miles to the nest.
That day he learned one of the most important lessons for any cross-country soaring pilot: NEVER GIVE UP !!
Dale Masters
THE DEVIL'S OWN THERMAL
The following is a true story that took place long ago and far away, at a small state airport with lots of hangars, fuel pumps, and other expensive stuff all over the place.
A student pilot and I were preparing to land and I was looking the field over as I always do, when something unusual caught my eye. In the middle of the tie-down area, between lines of Cessnas and Pipers, there was a bright white delta shape on the asphalt, about the size of a large house. It only took a moment to realize that we were looking at several thousand square feet of liquid propane.
Someone had backed a truck against a big supply tank, and knocked the valve off. While he was setting a new world speed record for an overweight man in work boots, the cylinder rapidly emptied onto the ground - a thousand feet directly below us.
What to do? (We were in a descending glider, after all!)
Imagining the Devil's own thermal, I told my student to forget our normal landing pattern and fly straight downwind while we considered our options. For all I knew, if that bomb down there ignited the shock wave alone might wreck our plane, and then there would be secondary explosions from the surrounding aircraft.
Well, a minute or so later we were far enough away to think about maybe breathing, but now we were getting low. We could land in any of several nearby fields, but de-rigging and then re-rigging a Schweizer 2-33 is a prospect almost as daunting as being caught on top of a major gas fire, so we turned and looked longingly back at our still quiet airport. Fire trucks were pulling in - is that good, or bad?
It may not have been a smart thing to do, but I asked the student what he thought about a spot landing at the very end of the airport, half a mile from the action. He said OK, and did a good job, too. We stopped in the grassy overrun, short of the numbers. But, approaching from downwind, before we even reached the ground the smell of propane was very strong, so we decided to just stay there for a while, waiting to see what would happen next.
Turns out they had closed the highway and evacuated neighboring houses, as the fire department washed down the entire flight line with their big hoses. They were concerned about residue from the gas sticking to the surfaces of the planes, etc.
Well, that's it for this anticlimactic adventure, except to mention that the overweight guy in the work boots is probably still sprinting, somewhere far away...
Eric Dill, CFIG
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Silver Lakes
"soup bowl." Clouds below on a great wave day at Great Western! Photos by Dale Masters.
