By Lisa Verzella
Turbulence: the word conjures up some pretty harsh images. Hitting the keel,
snapping wires, tumbling or collapsing and general loss of control are all
evidence of this nonconforming air. The parachute is foremost in our minds
during recovery maneuvers.
Often we are caught unawares: conditions have deteriorated, a
shear layer is present or we just fly into unfamiliar territory. A common
reaction, highly justified, is to quickly fly away from a rowdy area to seek
solace in currents that keep us upright or inflated.
There are times, however, when it's worth it to stick around,
and days when we choose to fly a site known for its radical air. Such sites
include King Mountain in Idaho, Sandia Peak in New Mexico, and the Owens
Valley in California (please note that I can recommend this air for advanced
hang glider pilots only, as I have too little experience with paragliding,
and others would be safer trying this at home, preferably over the couch
cushions).
Several Salt Lake City pilots and I attended the King Mountain
Hang Gliding Championships in early July. We were fully aware of its
potentially butt-kicking conditions during this part of the summer. A few
dozen pilots arrived early and were rewarded with excellent flying, though
it was a bit windy from the south. There were few reports of the unexpected
aside from the standard venturi at Ram's Horn which pasted a Colorado pilot
and his Fusion against the rocks (and killed another Colorado pilot in '97).
Local King pilot Frank Gillette flew down to assist the rescue, hiking out
the glider and uninjured pilot.
During this time and the following meet days, the weather in
Salt Lake was reported to have been strong south ahead of a huge storm. This
filtered down to just wind at King, a healthy upper level from the west,
which is a tricky situation there. Place a range of sheer rock with varying
jagged peaks at a 45 degree angle to the wind and you have strong potential
for rotor and venturi, coupled with the standard mechanical and thermal
turbulence.
Nearly 80 pilots were on hand to experience King at its most
formidable. The first day's route along the ridge netted the usual ripper
thermals at Mr. Nasty (where Jon Lindburg tumbled a few years ago) and the
headwind venturi at Pass Creek, where my GPS read 4-6 mph forward ground
speed.
After penetrating the Pass one comes upon a series of spiky
ledges, leading up to Invisible Mountain (never can spot that one), which
create a highly mixed airflow. Here I entered the most powerful lift of the
day (possibly of my life), death-gripping the basetube to prevent my nose
from being yanked up and over. After repeatedly falling out of the thermal
while circling, I tried to fly straight, at 40 mph, and sat solidly in the
core while debris flew up and past me for several minutes. I was actually in
the chimney of the thermal stack as I elevatored up nearly 3000 feet with no
forward ground speed.
Day 2 offered similar wild rides. Dust devils had plagued pilots
at launch, threatening to toss gliders and equipment. Rebelling against the
early breezy conditions, teammate Steve "Bigfoot" Rathbun and I didn't even
set up until a majority of the pilots were on course. We launched around 4:00
and had the smoothest ride yet to the top of King. (Glass-offs are the rage
here). Meanwhile nearly half the field was on approach to the Challis
airport, where there were several reported hairy landings, glider carnage
included. Park City ATOS pilot Tom Vayda experienced "moderate to severe"
turbulence, having gone weightless 5 times during the flight. He had run
deeper in along the ridge, where the air becomes radically mixed on windy
days.
The final day offered the most challenging situation: survival
flying. Though winds were decreased from the day before, Ogden pilot KC Benn
witnessed a giant dust devil toss his Predator backwards on the upper
launch, snapping the rope tie-down and breaking the leading edge. The same
event happened to SLC pilot Sam Cox in the same spot a few years ago. An
East route was called, which would take us up and over 3 mountain ranges,
toward Henry Lake. Teammate John Woiwode, a local to the King region,
predicted significant southerly winds the further east we flew, which was
uncannily accurate.
Going over the back of King is best done from above 13000 feet
(minimum 2000 over the top), higher if windy. Being conservative, I refused
to leave before reaching cloudbase. At 15700 I went on glide toward the
Lemhi Mountains, expecting rotor even at that altitude, but suffering merely
1200 fpm sink for several minutes.
The fun began crossing over Howe Mountain, a big zit smack in
the middle of the Lemhi Valley. I was blissfully unaware at this point that
the ground winds had significantly increased, tossing the valley air into a
blender set to "liquefy". Expecting lift over Howe but finding naught, I
glided toward a forming cloud just beyond, now down to 12500. Suddenly I
encountered the now familiar nose pitching turbulence which marks the edge
of a strong thermal, but failed to center in on the core. The air was so
mixed up that I had to keep stealing a glance at my averager to discern if
the 1400 down I just slammed into canceled out the 1600 up I was in two
seconds prior, ad nauseum for several minutes.
Continuing my efforts to stay upright, I raced away. At this
moment my glider began severely yawing... wires twanged...nose thrown down
then up. It lasts just a few minutes but seems like an hour. I had to guess
what input to make to keep the kingpost up, trying to hone in on my limited
paragliding experience to fly actively. Luck was on my side, as I eventually
flew out right side up. I radioed my experience to my teammates, grabbed
whatever lift I could, and hightailed it to the Lemhis when the averager
went negative but I was stil positive.
About a half hour later it was Bigfoot's turn to enter the
washing machine. While experiencing turbulent lee side lift flying through
the Lemhi Valley, he had yet to peg the scare factor. Gliding into the Lemhi
Mountains at 9000 feet ("still above launch, still above launch...") he
encountered smooth weak lift leading to a huge "well behaved" boomer which
elevatored him to 15500. He then glid toward a cloud to the north, deeper in
on the ridge, only to witness it falling apart as he approached, turning
into shredded rotor remnants. He dove over the back to escape the 1000 down
and proceeded to get drilled 10000 feet to the deck.
Bigfoot, no stranger to wild rides in his 20 years of flying,
recalls, "I encountered horrendous sink, very little bar pressure though I
was flying fast, and extremely strong but brief pops of lift which, when I
attempted to circle, thrashed and spit me out, so I ran away." He also had
experienced severe yaw, had difficulty keeping the glider on a straight
heading, and "a very uneasy feeling, like I could go over at any time. I
landed pretty far away from the road; I was afraid to fly a [landing]
pattern because the air was so weird".
Meanwhile I was scraping 1000 AGL [above ground level], well
aware now of the south winds. Each thermal turn displaced me several hundred
feet toward the foothills of Small and Moneida Pass. I tried to locate cores
that were going straight up and blocking the wind, but it's hard to be picky
when you're low. I eventually got up over the foothills, drifting less as I
got higher.
Climbing through 12500, I knew I would have to get back out
front to stay on course, but it wasn't until I exited the thermal and
started gliding forward that I realized it was too late. I saw the pass
below and to the east; I was caught in the venturi. Fortunately there were a
few LZs down there, and I could still crab sideways toward those.
I breathed a sigh of relief upon reaching those with 800
vertical feet to spare. Then I began moving backwards. While flying nearly
60 mph, I was desperately searching for a clear spot behind me while flying
away from my beautiful LZ in front of me. Preparing for ground effect that
might shoot me forward, I did the briefest of turns to put me down on a
patch of grass between fence, tree and I-15.
I felt silly for flying into a venturi unawares, but soon
learned that SLC pilot Paris Williams and Montana pilot Dan Gravage endured
similar conditions landing in front of the mountain. Dan actually landed
hard on his basetube and was thrown back into the air 30 feet. We discussed
whether or not that counted as 2 flights.
Later that day, Bigfoot commented that he'd really be surprised
if no one had tumbled that day. Sure enough, veteran Montana pilot Bill
Snyder was flipped upside down 1000 feet over the Lemhi Valley and had to
throw his chute 3 times before it opened. He drifted down to Terra Firma
unharmed, only to be dragged a half mile by his chute, lacking a hook kinfe
to cut himself free. His glider, having suffered only 2 broken leading edges
from the tumble, was completely destroyed while being dragged.
Three exhausting days of thrilling, horrifying, exciting flying
that I wouldn't trade for all the Snickers in the world. I even managed to
take 6th place. Woiwode, placing 2nd, called it "typical King". The valuable
lesson we've learned is that hanging on through turbulence can be a
rewarding experience, if you know your site, your abilities, and when to
"run away".