From Air Currents February 1960

FINAL DIAMOND, 
by Joseph C. Lincoln

After a nineteen hour trip, we arrived in Odessa late afternoon of August, 1959. The crew was made up of Ruth Petry, John, Gregory and Beebo. Cirro-Q was trailed and I grandly went along as pilot. The first few days everything was very congenial; then, as they say in diplomatic circles, the relations between Ruth Petry and Beebo deteriorated. Ruth began calling Beebo B. O. and Beebo gave a canine grunt which allowed as how he might reserve a doubt or two about the meteorological phenomenon which is know among all advanced soaring pilots as the Petry condition.

On the fifth of August conditions began very late, and I went aloft even later. It was l3:45 when I went up with a Diamond Goal at Hereford, Texas, 195 miles away. I was down at 13:55. Up again at l4:l5 with very strong convection which permitted cruising 85 to 90 mph indicated between thermals. Now it was only a matter of whether or not the conditions held up until late in the day. We smoked past Andrews and Seminole and Seagraves. Then came the first hole. Before we got to Brownfield, a third of the way to the goal~ it was necessary to reduce the speed. Came Levelland, half way and we were flying almost at Max. L/D. A landing was considered at Littlefield but we struggled on across the Double Mountain Fork, a dry streambed filled with sandy hummocks. Evening thermals had happened before, would they bring me in today? Seven miles beyond Spring Lake, over Running Water Creek, we were down below five hundred feet for the second time and no good landing places appeared ahead. A turn was made and a one mile retreat to a very good field on the border of Castro County. We were short of the goal by thirty four miles.

Next day I attempted a Diamond Triangle. We made the first turn which was Sterling City after struggling for hours almost dead into a strong headwind. 82 miles to the turn - three times almost having to land; then finding the day was too far gone to try for the Diamond, we headed for Big Spring, then back toward Odessa. After a long fight to get home, we landed only six miles short. Two up; Two down, a clean strike-out both times. I meant to rest the following day, but the weather looked too good and I flew locally for several hours.

8 August dawned with an east wind again; conditions locally flat in the Odessa area; thunderstorms expected to west and north; storms building up to solid overcast in the east, I declared a goal at McCoy Field, 202 miles WSW on the Rio Grande River. We rushed preparations and were the first ship aloft that day. (Bob Sparling will never believe this, but I have Beebo as my witness.) Ruth Petry sealed my canopy and put on a red yarn yaw indicator. She wrote "YAW INDICATOR" on the piece of masking tape that held it on so tourists could understand what in hell it was for. Three hundred feet up on the tow I remembered the barograph was not on, so did the necessary contortions to pull the wire, then radioed to Ruth to ask Lloyd Licher if this would count, or if I should land and start over. Reply came that as long as a good notch was made the barogram would be satisfactory.

I released at 1800 feet in what seemed like a good thermal, made a dive to 1500, stayed there for thirty-five seconds and looked for the lift again. It came: 100 fpm. After drifting on course five minutes we got up to 2000 above terrain, near the edge of gliding distance back to the field. This was not good enough; we headed back. Down at 1500 feet again came the good thermal, 500 fpm. After gaining 2000 feet, I radioed Ruth to leave. It did not weaken until we had a mile of air beneath us, but there was %little enough reason for optimism; the first solid looking cumulus lay in a north-south line, west of Monahans, over forty miles away.

We were almost down to 2000 when we passed the carbon plant west of Odessa, and again at Penwell, and again ten miles later when over the road that leads south toward the distant horizon and the tiny square on the chart which is only marked: Settlement. Twenty-two miles in the first hour even with a good tailwind and the good thermal to start us off. Just past Monahans, almost in reach of the clouds, we were down to 1300 feet and sinking 700 fpm when the first great bump of the day shook Cirro-Q and bowed her wings; then we were circling up at 1000 fpm in a rough thermal which took us to the first cloudbase at 9300 and all the anxiety of the first two hours was gone. The worry about how to land on unlandable dunes was gone; the throttle went to the floor and we cruised the next forty miles to Pecos at 85 mph between thermals.

The clouds began to thin out between Pecos and Toyah, and in the next thirty miles they disappeared. The comfortable minimum of 5000 feet above terrain vanished. Twice again we got down to 2000 before turning right toward Kent, 125 miles out. Things became steadily worse as we inched along past Kent at best glide speed. Every thermal was worked to the top, but the top was never 3000 above the ground. At Baracho Station Ruth Petry stopped the car and watched me circle twenty minutes between 950 and 1100 feet above the ground0 Then a lift got us another ten miles after which we sank like a stone down to 700 feet and I radioed that I was gong to land. Zero sink again. But this time it quickly developed into a thermal, and we got to Culbertson County Airport, and then Van Horn with 3000 feet above ground.

During twenty minutes over Van Horn my nerves rested as the altitude varied between 2500 and 3200 feet. There were fifty miles to go and at best, altitude enough to cover twenty. Straight ahead it looked even worse than the hole I had just barely scraped through, However, off to the south was a row of gigantic towering cumulus which looked as if it might have been just barely in range. If you can't make a line plunge, how about an end run? Going against the mighty temptation to use my precious altitude for getting on toward the goal, I headed south. Ten miles along the way I had lost only 1200 feet and got a lift which restored most of it. Then we tiptoed under each promising little cloud and started going west again until we got over Eagle Peak. At the end of this mountain we turned WSW and headed right for the bottom tip of the Quitman Mountains, pausing along the way to use every shred of lift. The big clouds were close now but we had little altitude to spare and were getting in the area of heavy sink around them. The tail of these mountains was only 312 miles from the Rio Grande; I finally reached it with 1300 feet of altitude left after letting Ruth know by radio about where I would be if we went down. The heavy sink we had been flying through moderated, then became weak lift, then stronger and stronger lift. We began a turn in steady 1000 fpm lift which seemed like a gift from heaven.

The climb was stopped at cloudbase, 12,300 feet asl. highest point of the day, and there was a cloudstreet pointing straight at the goal. At that position there are two folds in the chart; we were far off the measured distances and I did not realize there were only 21 miles to go, with altitude enough to cover 50~ I only told Ruth that I would finally allow myself a little optimism~ and slowly the conviction grew that a victory was at hand as we covered miles without losing altitude.

We found the goal with 7000 feet to spare and I guided Ruth in by radio and waited aloft while she hunted up someone who could speak English to witness the landing. After a fast let down we whistled out over the green Rio Grande Valley at 100 mph, then banked and came back to a landing at McCoy field a three diamond ship and a three Diamond pilot, while the row of towering cumulus that gave us the final lift began flaring out into anvils and drifted silently into Mexico.

From Air Currents: January/February 1970

MY FIRST WAVE FLIGHT
OR
FOR WANT OF A BAROGRAPH

by

Steve Conch

Before meeting the Humes, my only experience with soaring was the ten cent glider you buy at the dimestore. I didn't know a single thing about the sport that was rapidly gaining popularity in the United States I was never very interested in flying; I thought it best to leave that to the experienced pilots until I ran into one on a camping trip in Northern Arizona. Al Hume and his wife, Nancy, were camped less than two hundred yards from my family's campsite in the White Mountains. Our two families became good friends, and after talking continuously with Al about gliders and soaring, he agreed to take me to Prescott to show me what all the shouting was about.

At Prescott, I was awed to see these ships, which seemed so clumsy on the ground, towed to a thousand feet, release and climb with more style than a bird could ever dream of. I was hoping for a flight in the Club1s 2-22, but thunder clouds were moving in, and my chances seemed thin. Al said we might get in a quick flight and began to pre-flight the odd-looking trainer. Just then the first drops of rain began to fall9 We hoped it would blow over but it continued to get worse. A few times the rain slowed up enough for us to poke our heads out of the car windows and take a look around.

Finally it stopped. Immediately a dozen figures darted from cars and opened trailers in attempts to disassemble their ships before the rain started again. It was then that Al surprised me by saying, "Come on Steve, we'll take a quick flight."

A few people pulled the trainer off the grass onto the wet pavement and Joe Lincoln taxied the Citabria into position. Someone helped me into the backseat of the trainer, while Al set the altimeter to field elevation and pulled the release for the lineman. In seconds the canopy was closed, the wings were leveled and we were rolling down the runway at sixty miles per hour. It seemed as if the towplane would never leave the runway, but suddenly it was off arid we were climbing.

We released at l,500 feet arid over the roar of the air, I heard Al say to expect only a short glide down. It was about that time that the vario pegged at 500 up and the left wing seemed to be thrown out of a mass of turbulent rising air. We then made a steep bank to the left and climbed out to 4,500 feet.


I was hooked! For the next three weeks, I thought only of gliders and how to get started in the sport. Then one day, Nancy called and told me about Estrella Sailport, which had just opened near Maricopa, and that it was owned by two brothers, Las and Stephen Horvath. She suggested I give Las a call and ask about a job.

The brothers agreed to give me lesson's in exchange for the work I did as a lineboy. Stephen taught me everything I would need to know and after my 30th flight, he soloed me. Now I was on my own. Within a week I had A and B pins. My C pin was a little harder to get, but after an hour and a half ridge soaring, the third badge was mine. I began to come out to work now in hopes of a "Silver leg" day.

Shortly after my first solo flight in the l-26D, there was such a day,January 31, 1970. My main concern was getting 5 hours duration, and the wind velocity and direction seemed to be perfect for the ridge. After towing parallel to the ridge arid releasing at 2,500 feet, I found no lift. Apparently the wind direction was not as good as I'd thought.

Immediately after that disheartening flight, Stephen told me I would be towed into the wave; and before I knew it I was towing through a very rough rotor and finally into the wave. I released at 3,100 and quickly climbed to 8,000 feet. It was at this altitude that I first realized how much I appreciated the jacket Dale Donahoe, our tow pilot, had loaned me for the flight.

It was at 8500 feet that I first ran into a little trouble; I lost contact, with the wave. Since I had never been alone in a wave before, the only knowledge I could draw on was a short lecture before the flight. Stephen had said, "If you lose the wave, first try flying upwind." This I did, and sure enough the vario slowly wound to 300 up. It was about this time I noticed another l-26 off to my right about 500 feet. Suddenly the pilot pulled dive brakes and banked down below my ship. I got a good look at the pilot as he came out to the left. It was Las. He was with me again, and again he dove down below me. What was he doing? At 10,000, I realized what it was he was trying to tell me. He wanted me to land. It took me a few minutes to figure why. I had forgotten to take a barograph.

I was really upset. I had already made Silver altitude and was climbing toward Gold. Maybe I should head down and pick up a barograph. I toyed with the idea for a few minutes, but decided to stay and try for five hours. At 12,000 feet I began to get uncomfortable. First, there was the cold; I can't remember ever being so cold. Second, I, would have given anything to have had a relief tube. Third, I was gaining altitude more slowly now, and I knew the wave was about to top. Also, I was beginning to feel the effects of lack of oxygen. I did not have any trouble breathing as I thought might happen. Instead, I just began to feel quite pleasant and a little dizzy.

Fortunately (?) at 12,600 feet the wave topped out and I slowly lost altitude. I was up for three hours when I reached 10,000. I knew it was going to be a steady glide down from then on, and my best bet would be to stay at my lowest sink speed and to search for some lift to keep me up for two more hours.

At 7,000 feet, I was level with four other ships (all 1-26's) working a small area of left-over wave. I managed around 7000 for almost half an hour, but slowly I fell into the rotor of the disappearing wave and I knew my flight was almost over. When at last I did touch down, I felt more tired than sad. Learning to walk again was an experience I won't soon forget. I made a beeline for the restroom.

Then I checked my time and found the flight to be four hours and seven minutes long, with a net gain of 9,000 feet. I don't think I've ever heard the phrase, "chalk it up to experience", more times than I did the rest of that day. Don Barnard made me feel quite good when he commented, "There's the champion for today, four hours!" Almost everyone had the same last helpful hint to offer, "Next time - take a barograph."