Cold Cross Country
by Mark Strauss
Forty miles from home, thirty-five hundred feet above the ground and
no engine...not your average first solo cross-country flight.
The morning had been like any other -- bright blue sky and not a cloud anywhere over Warren-Sugarbush airport. In central Vermont and situated adjacent to the Green Mountains, the natural terrain and stunning beauty of this area combine to make Warren- Sugarbush airport one of the premier soaring sights in the Northeast. At 9:00 a.m. and with a few "Good Mornings" and another wishful glance at the sky, a diverse group of devoted glider addicts, including myself began the ritualistic process of assemblying our glass and steel birds. Assembly and preflight complete, we pushed and pulled and towed this great white fleet to the end of the runway. For machines that are so graceful in the air, they are awkward on the ground with their fifty foot wingspans and empty weights often over 800 pounds. With our planes in position, and your friendly neighborhood L-19 tow pilot standing by, all that was left to do was wait. Wait for the weather to evolve. Wait for the sun to fuel up the sky -- one hundred percent fusion power! 11:00 a.m. -- the first wisps of white dot the sky...it was time to launch. Like jets off the deck of a carrier, the fleet was towed into the sky...one by one...destination unknown. I was one of the first. At 2,800 feet and with the vertical speed indicator pegged up at over 1,000 feet per minute, I pulled the tow cable release and initiated a climbing turn to the right. With gear up and the tow plane well clear to the left and below I continued to climb under what used to be one of those small white wisps. It was now a full fledged, concave-bottomed cumulus cloud marking the top of a column of air rising at more than 10 knots. This was a good sign. At just over 5,000 feet and just below the cloud base, I tuned the radio from Unicom to air-to-air and set out to find the rest of the fleet. The radio roared to life, "Papa-Mike, Papa-Mike, this is Eight-Uniform...ready to go?" No need to say where. Eight-Uniform, A Schempp-Hirth Ventus flown by my flight instructor and good friend Bob Messner, had climbed up right below me and was asking me if I wanted to fly out of gliding distance from the airport--my first cross country. For months I had looked at sectionals, examined landmarks, spoken with other pilots and practiced for the day I could break the apron strings -- the day I could fly beyond those imaginary lines in the sky which marked the minimum altitude required to safely glide back to the local airport. Today was the day. With an excited and slightly apprehensive "Let's go," I watched Eight-Uniform raise her flaps, dumping excess lift and drag, lower her nose and screech northward at over 100 knots. I turned to follow, but at a slightly more conservative airspeed. I set the speed-to-fly computer to calculate the speed I should fly in order to optimize my glide ratio, lowered the nose and soared off northward at a modest 70 knots. I wanted to get there, not get there fast. We continued north from cloud to cloud. Eight-Uniform would fly ahead, then circle in lift as I caught up. We flew first past landmarks which I had flown over before but soon past new landmarks, new landing fields and mountainous ridges which I did not recognize. Eight-Uniform pointed out every important feature. The rest of the great white fleet soon flew by us on their way north, a few stopping briefly to circle with us in strong lift. It was easy to follow Eight-Uniform. He would navigate, find lift and point out alternative landing sites while all I had to do was fly. I seemed almost like flying dual...almost. About 40 miles north of Warren-Sugarbush airport, our home field, Eight-Uniform had flown out ahead about two miles and I lost sight of him. He radioed and said to fly towards the lake. I acknowledged. After about five minutes I radioed that I was at the lake. With Eight-Uniform no where in sight, I requested his heading. "Eight-Uniform heading 360." I was heading 070. There was no doubt about it, we had flown to different lakes. My faithful guide was gone and a cold chill filled the cockpit. All I had to do was fly home, but I had to do it alone. Play time was over. I turned 180 degrees as everything I had learned seemed to become instantly available. I knew just where I was and could see every landmark and surface feature in my head. Enroute toward a large cumulus cloud I entered the cloud base altitude into my final glide computer so that I would know exactly when I intersected the glide slope home. Computers have hustled their way into nearly every facet of our lives and the glider cockpit is no exception. The final glide computer is an amazing piece of electronics capable of integrating airspeed, vertical speed, altitude and position in order to calculate the conditions necessary to achieve a straight-in glide home without the benefit of further lifting conditions. I passed directly under a billowing cumulus and to my surprise and concern, the air was smooth -- not even a bump in the seat of the pants. My time averaged VSI indicated nothing. The towering cloud was only a decomposing remnant of a thermal gone by the wayside. I had missed the cycle and there was no lift. My altitude was now about 2,500 feet and although still enroute and looking for lift, my attention began to shift to a small alternate airport about 29 miles north of home. As I burned my altitude off under a clear blue sky, I became more and more convinced of my defeat and my inevitable landing at this alternate. Landing out is not an infrequent occurrence and is very much a part of gliding. I had spent many hours training for just such a circumstance. With good judgement, good flight planning and good training, landing out is a safe and viable end to any glider flight -- although not always as satisfying. More than one power plane has been saved by pilots with soaring experience. It was just then, however, that a small bird caught my eye. About a mile away, a bird was circling under a small group of clouds. It was a sign I had been taught not to ignore. I turned towards the bird. It was a hawk thermaling, watching and waiting for prey. I was probably the last thing he wanted to see -- a giant glass bird flying at three times his speed. As I entered the thermal under the hawk I was slammed down into my seat as the plane was sucked up by the rising air. I established a 60 degree angle of bank to the right and climbed towards cloud base. At about 5,500 feet, the final glide computer indicated that I had intersected the glide slope home. I said goodbye to my thermalling companion and turned south to head home. As I approached my home airport, I could see the rest of the great white fleet -- a gaggle of nine sleek white birds circling in a large thermal just west of the airport. And as I got closer, I heard one exclaim over the radio, "Eight-Uniform, here comes your puppy!" I had always thought of myself as a "Maverick" or "Viper," but that day, after four and a half hours in the air and more than 120 miles behind me, I was happy to be a "Puppy" and be home. |