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| August 2001 |
FLIGHT TO VARIADERO by Joseph C. Lincoln All the long plans for improving the sailplane had come to nothing. We had mounted a prodigious effort to get the flight going only to be stopped by exhaustion and airsickness. The flight had terminated at Winslow. On Friday, 1 July, I was again in touch with my gifted young crewman, Dwayne Spain. At three o'clock that afternoon the decision was made to fly on Saturday. I had been lazy and had not taken all the soaring gear out of the station wagon from the Sunday before. It did not take long to pack up. Derek Van Dyke had agreed to tow on either Saturday or Sunday; Joe Wischler had checked over Cirro-Q. By four we left Sky Harbor on the way to Prescott where we were bedded down in John Lincoln's home by ten. Up at five, breakfasted, and at work on the sailplane before seven, we pitched into the long job of washing, rigging, taping, and installing barograph, batteries, radio, water, charts, tie-downs, food, pillow, parachute, and all the other gear which finds its way into a sailplane preparing for a long flight. One final check of wind and weather. Back to Cirro-Q at ten fifteen and climb in. The tow rope had already been laid out. The Waco was grumbling, and I was trundled out with some difficulty and hooked up. Release check: O.K. Hook up again. The Waco rolled forward and took up the slack in the line. Marcel and Bertha waved goodbye and good luck. Dwayne held the wingtip level. We were ready to go. At ten twenty-nine we started to move. Ten twenty-nine! The same minute that Johnson had started on his great flight out of Odessa. A good omen, I thought. Five minutes got us up a thousand feet. The next five minutes netted at least three hundred more. Ten minutes on tow and only thirteen hundred feet up? What's wrong? I hope he has an altimeter in the Waco or he will think I have decided to spend the day being towed around Chino valley. Three more minutes and we are at 6900 ft. ASL, 1900 above the ground, upwind of the field. I released, made a dive to 1600, held it down there for thirty-five seconds, and began searching lift. Presently came a booming 75 fpm thermal, which took us c1ear back up to 1840ft. before weakening. Little sink in between, while looking for the next one. Better this time. Almost 100 fpm. Isn't it supposed to be unstable today? The next several minutes were spent circling up to escape altitude, ten thousand ASL, and we kept going on to e1even. That's better I lowered the retractable antenna. "Prescott Radio, Prescott Radio, this is Schweizer 91899 receiving on 122 point 5 megacycles. Do you read? Over." "Schweizer 91899, this is Prescott Radio. Reading loud and clear. Over." "Prescott Radio, Schweizer 91899, if my crew calls in or if Marcell Godinat asks, I am now at eleven thousand feet, and have worked up at five hundred feet a minute. Over." "Roger,91899. We will relay the message. Prescott out." I pulled in the antenna, and looked down at the field a last time. We had drifted the first two miles on course. The Ford Ranch Wagon and trailer were parked close to where the flight had started, and right now Marcel was going off on tow. It was well past the half hour mark in elapsed time. Two miles in half an hour, four miles an hour? Let's go! We set out across Chino Valley, heading for Mingus Mountain at 80 mph indicated in the first cruise of the day. Almost immediately we hit a crashing sinker. Down 4000 feet before even reaching Mingus! Far below the top of the mountain. Is this one going to end even before we get to the Verde Valley? I turned ninety degrees right in order to use ridge lift from the mountain to keep the flight going .Then came a boomer and once again we started circling up at 500 fpm. The lift held on until we were back at 11,000 feet. Stepping across Mingus we flew slowly for a time, trying" to save altitude which is always useful in crossing the Verde Valley. One hour after takeoff we passed Jerome. Eighteen mph! I guess any similarity Johnson's flight ended with the takeoff time. Out across the valley there was only scant lift and almost no sink. In the Mormon Lake area there was a big Cumulonimbus just getting ready to drop a load. We would have to detour left of course and head straight for Flagstaff. Clear across the valley at max L/D, and hardly a bump in the air; then into the high country straight south of Flag. A little sink now. 2700 feet above terrain; 2400,2200, 1900, nothing for lift. Each little aloud seemed more futile than the previous one. Ahead, just within gliding distance, was a little meadow in the timber, which offered a marginal but usable place to land. 1700 feet, then lift! Clear back up to 2300 ft. at 80 fpm. .Then it gave out. We had drifted with the wind and now had a magnificent dry lake to land on. Ahead, at the San Francisco Peaks, and miles out of range were glorious clouds for soaring. We looked at the big dry lake and lost the six hundred feet which had been gained. Then another lift. Again less than 100 fpm. Up to 2400 feet this time. Sink; lift; sink. The next lift got us almost in range of the Flagstaff Airport. We spent perhaps thirteen minutes gaining a thousand feet. The lift gave out; we headed on course and lost the thousand feet in eighty seconds. Then came a strong surge of energy under the wings; we began to circle and centered in a good 600 fpm thermal. This one carried us right up to 12,000 feet, high point of the day. Things were looking up. We flew over downtown Flagstaff, and paused once or twice to circle in 1000 fpm lift; then we got east of the peaks in the powerful lift which had been so far out of range a little while ago. One last climb was made which stopped at 15,000 feet; the highest point in Arizona was now below and behind us With a feeling of triumph we headed for Winslow, and put the throttle down to the floorboards - 100 mph. With the tail wind helping us now we moved rapidly eastward over the plateau. Rapid climbs and glides were alternated with stretches or straight flying under short cloud streets. Winslow Radio, Winslow Radio, this is Schweizer 91899. Could you give me the weather ahead in the direction of Zuni and Gallup?" A line of cloud had become overdeveloped east of Winslow and if it got worse it threatened to end the flight. The weatherman had encouraging news, however. The precipitation was light and local. Things were booming ahead all the way to Albuquerque. We talked back and forth for a minute and exchanged greetings because it was the same man I had visited in the Winslow tower only six days earlier. Just east of Winslow we got back up to over twelve thousand feet and had little trouble making it past Holbrook; then came a long sink which grew steadily worse as we approached the wet cloud. Over four thousand feet was paid out, the last two thousand in only two minutes. We were flying just three thousand feet over the Painted Desert floor. Three minutes to landing? The cloud mass above and just ahead seemed to have no promise. Then suddenly came zero sink and strong lift. A single thermal took us back to 13,000 at more than 800 fpm. Ahead to the eastward the sky was open, dotted with fair weather clouds. We set out again at 100 mph and flew just north of the old Painted Desert Inn. The next period involved the fastest flying I have done. One hour netted seventy-three miles, and seemed more like Maxey flying Jenny Mae than myself in Cirro-Q. Average speed had gone up from four mph the first half hour, and only 19 mph the first hour to around forty- five. Tail wind varied but seemed to average about ten mph. The road to Gallup soon passed underneath as we headed for Zuni, doing a good bit of straight flying with no circles. Then came another scare. Two clouds had not produced the expected lift and had been abandoned. I was in sight of the radio range station at Zuni, less than three thousand feet above the high terrain on the Continental Divide. Were we going to have to work some weak Texas-style ,500 fpm lift? After losing another five hundred feet I was ready to work anything going up and when we hit some bumps a careful search of the area was made, stopping finally in a moderate thermal which never got up to 400 fpm. We circled and circled and finally got back up over 12,000 as the Divide approached. My two previous flights over the Continental Divide had been brutally difficult. This time it was different; we sailed over at 12,000 as if it were not there. Presently we brought up Grants, New Mexico, 265 miles out. "Grants Radio, this is Schweizer 91899 on a soaring flight out of Prescott, Arizona. Repeat, I am on a soaring flight out of Prescott. Now over Grants at twelve thousand five hundred feet. I have a crewman chasing me in a station wagon and trailer. When he calls would you give him this information?" "Roger Schweizer 899." "Schweizer 899 again. Could you radio this information to Zuni too? I don't have their frequency on my set." "Roger899." For another ten minutes the flight was carefree. Then everything changed. South of Mount Taylor lay a series of heavy cumulus cells. A trace of rain was falling from a couple of them. The tops were not overly high but had become diffuse, and over half the distance to Santa Fe was covered with cirrus. Even under the black bottoms of these clouds the lift was weak. Twenty miles ahead were two stunted cumulus clouds , anemia as mushrooms grown in the dark, struggling for existence under the covering cirrus. The temptation is always to go forward; the problem now was to stay aloft; gone was the sparkling blue sky, the gay festive cumulus with 1000 fpm thermals, the hours which covered over 70 miles each. We turned SSE, away from the course and flew toward a black cell at max glide speed. Down a thousand feet. We spent minutes circling to gain it back. Then west, losing ground. Another weak thermal. North- west, a promising thermal which seemed to be tattered and broken up. Four hundred feet gained. Lost immediately on the way to another cloud. 60 fpm lift. After an interminable period we are back up to four thousand feet over the ground. Another search. Another sink on the way. Another thermal of 100 fpm. After forty minutes of this the sky gradually opened to the ESE. We were back up to safe cruising altitude and moved out over the intersection of the road and the railroad. Tiptoe all the way - 50 miles an hour indicated. Every foot of altitude was squeezed from each thermal along the way. Gradually, losing altitude as each succeeding thermal lifted less, we approached Albuquerque. A mass or powerful cumulus melted as we came nearly into range - first at the north end, twenty miles up from the city, then in the center, and last the south end, just a few miles ahead. We were then down to 9500 feet, or 4400 feet above terrain; off oxygen for the first time in what seemed hours. West Mesa Airport was five miles to the NE. My longest f1ight so far had ended there, diamond distance. Six days before Marcel had tied it with a flight to the same airport. 4400 feet will beat it a few miles anyway. Mid-afternoon. The sun was halfway down the sky. It seemed forever we had been in weak lift or gliding at max LID. Then from nowhere came the surge of a gigantic thermal. The Memphis swept majestically from 150 down to 1100 feet up. In half a turn we were 'centered and it settled on 1000 fpm. "Well, Cirro-Q, maybe somebody will hear about this flight after all." Eight minutes later, 8100 feet higher, the thermal weakened and we turned east. This thermal generated no cloud and it was the only time we got to cloudbase. Toward Santa Fe the sky was dying. We flew through a heavy snowstorm; over Albuquerque but on the other side of the storm the sky looked promising to the east. I called Albuquerque Radio to tell him I was changing my plan. The goal flight would have been Santa Fe. Now, I would go straight east toward Tucumcari. I asked him to inform Dwayne. Twenty-five miles east the clouds disappeared. There were a few stepping stones leading to the NE. SE of Santa Fe there began a long cloud street which curved from the ENE around to straight E into the Texas panhandle. Reach that and we can go, I thought. We flew NE. Both lift and sink between thermals weakened steadily, but we finally got to the beginning of the street. Very weak. To have been here three-quarters of an hour earlier! We circled up to two thousand feet and headed on course with strong sink 'between the cells. A series of climbs and glides brought us up south of Las Vegas, New Mexico. The sun was now almost down behind a very high cumulonimbus mass west of the Sangre de Christos. Eastward, still eastward in a dying sky. Thermals became very difficult o work. Las Vegas dropped out of sight behind. The lonely railroad passing northeast from that village went back out of sight. Eastward we flew, getting steadily lower above the well-kept fields. How far can we make it? Tucumcari? Conchas Reservoir? Hey. Pay attention here. 1000 fpm sink. Speed up to 100. Now lift - down to 45 again. Let's get off this high shelf. Altitude was running out. I turned on the navigation lights. A small navigation error had occurred. I had mistaken the escarpment for a contour line. We were still a good way from the Reservoir. I did not think even the RJ-5 could make it from this altitude. What's that village? Are we only there? Variadero. It checked out. Yes. We came over the town with eight hundred feet in hand. The fields were checked. There was a good field directly into the wind and with no obstructions at a tiny ranch about a mile and a half north of town. This is it. Three turns were made - wide turns to extend the flight to a full nine hours. We were still in sink. Over the wires, over the tractor standing at the end of the field; spoilers, flareout, and touchdown. Eight hours and fifty-eight minutes. Four hundred and fifty-seven miles. Mr. Reducindo Roybal who owned the ranch came up to help me before I was even out of my sailplane. |
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AUGUST 1970: RECORDS
NEW STATE RECORD |
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