by faoro » Sun Apr 29, 2007 6:05 am
What a week at Pine Mountain, the Mecca of local flying sites! No wonder we have almost religious awe and reverence for the location. You never know what you'll get - or where you'll get it - when you set your nervous toes on launch, risers in hand, and turn to pick your cycle.
On Wednesday, three condors flew tight to the north side, ridge soaring and showing us that even professionals have bad days at Pine. We never launched.
Friday afternoon we had the cocktail flight: A short and sweet happy hour romp from Pine to Ojai with a generous tailwind to put you high over the valley with enough time for a scenic cruise before dinner and drinks with friends. That is, of course, unless you are Chip Bartley, who had enough bandage material around his legs Saturday morning (from his unfortunate encounter with a heretofore unidentified chaparral predator species on the north side of Nordhoff Ridge) that someone called him "the Mummy." "It's all good," Chip would say repeatedly about the experience. A stoic courage indeed, in the face of such terrifying, carnivorous plant material.
Maybe it was the sake and hefeweizen of Friday night's celebration of Chip's survival story. But it was very difficult for me to get off launch once again on Saturday morning. Eager to get off early with a fire building in the valley at the sandpile (apparently from a vehicle that left the highway), I tried to pull up in the cycles that had some east in them, my wing always turning and coming down on the west side of launch. I have trouble launching the Trango anyway, but an east crosswind makes the Pine launch difficult. Finally, a perfect cycle and pull-up - but my risers were crossed and I brought the wing crashing down on the heads of the other pilots standing nearby. Dean helped me unwind every time and I got off nicely on the fourth attempt. There was plenty of lift, but the air felt explosive to me, so I didn't turn and tried to reach the ridge. There was strong pull to my right. Even though the thermal was right there, I avoided it to avoid turning into the hill. Mistake. The next thing I hit was the strongest sink I have ever felt at launch. (It would be an indicator of the huge downdrafts outside the large thermals all day.) I plummeted below the tree line and peeled back down the canyon. Here, I felt the draw and lift was to my left, but I didn't want to cross the canyon toward Reyes and get stuck - there was a 6-9 mph headwind of the draw to the thermal going off behind me. Another mistake. Now I was below the bonzai tree in very nervous air thinking about a hike out from the perpendicular ridge in front of me. But I've gotten up there before on at least four occasions and had nothing to lose at this point. The gods smiled on me and I hooked into a strong thermal that drifted west with the prevailing east wind toward the smoky conflagration below. I could see the twenty foot high flames off the brush on each turn. CDF was already on the scene. The fire had little fuel due to the last fire four years ago.
Anyway, it was gratifying to get high and watch the fire and see that my pals had bravely punched off and taken a better route - they were already getting way up over the back ridge. That thermal took me to 11,500 feet and I cruised the back ridge as I had to change out radios. The batteries were dead in the first and I couldn't change them in the twitchy air. Soon there were paragliders and hang gliders everywhere, many of them above 13,000 feet, and people started heading out on course.
Saturday was one of those days that a paraglider seemed more like a kite than a vehicle. The hang glider was the more efficient means of transportation. They quickly disappered on their hundred mile flights. It took a long time to get anywhere (at least, in my impatient mind), despite tailwinds of 10-20 mph. Like we've seen many times the last two years, it was setting up over the back. A convergent line stretched out toward Dry Canyon, where two cumis marked its position. Dean and Andy took a northerly route, while Robb and Art got up over the mouth of the canyon. I tanked up several times before and during my crossing at the middle of the badlands. The lift was all over the place, but it was frustratingly slow at times, while other times it yanked you unpleasantly out of your seat. I should have bypassed the weak stuff. I got my best screamer at the east end of the 50-50, ascending to 14,700 feet. It was so cold on my face and hands that I didn't want to get any higher. I was never below 10,500 feet through Lockwood Valley. There was that wonderful experience several times that afternoon: Feeling tremendous lift and looking up to see a wispie forming high over the top of your wing. But there were also gaping sinkholes. Three times I felt I was in freefall parachutage as I fell out the sides of gigantic thermals.
A sailplane came in low underneath me at the east end of Lockwood Valley. What a glide! He effortlessly transitioned to Frazier for a brief turn or two with Robb and then casually took off into the Antelope Valley, lower than the top of Frazier Peak! Meanwhile, despite the fact that I was 2,000 feet higher than that sailplane, I barely came into Frazier with about 8K. I took my usual booster at the southwest corner of the mountain and got up to 13,500 feet to consider my prospects within the Antelope Valley. I wasn't too happy about Dean and Andy's wind reports. They had both gotten hammered, Dean on the Tehachapi side at the cement plant and Andy on the south side pushing toward Quail Lake. My GPS said I had a play for Quail Lake, so I pushed out toward booster junction. There were cumis at the east end of the Antelope Valley and up into the desert. I knew the hangies had scored a direct hit. I could see Andy on the ground beneath me at the entrance to Hungry Valley. I watched the movement of the cars and trucks coming down out of the Grapevine. Like so many ants, the call of family and friends and commerce drawing them to their thousands of different destinations. While I was lost in reverie, thinking about my life and the march of time - inexorable like the movement of vehicles on the I-5 - my groundspeed bled away and I turned back to land with Andy. To find a friend at the end of the trip on one's daily journey is always a good thing.
Three hours of dancing with clouds. Many friends spread out over twenty seven miles. Thanks to Ron M. and Mike for gathering us all up.
Last edited by
faoro on Sun Apr 29, 2007 10:49 am, edited 1 time in total.