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…
, 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!”
