No matter whether we've known it or not, we've all been chasing Frank for a
long time. Frank Gillette's always been the flying icon to aspire to,
the hero of our
flying, he's been around longer than anyone else, longer than the trees. I
first flew with him in 1978 at the Riggins Idaho Fly In, and over the years
have realized what large shoes those were to step into. His Idaho State
Record has been equally difficult to surpass, and every year that has gone
by, we all realize more and more what an accomplishment that was back almost
a decade ago. Moreso, even four years after the advent of rigids, he was
still on top, untouchable; try as we might, we couldn't even come close to
the bar he set for us to fly over. So it is with a measure of both pride and
humility that I recount the following flight, because in the yeoman's effort
to raise the bar a notch for the region, I am acutely aware of the size of
shoes that I am sticking my toes into.
Friday, July 14, 2000. The day had some of the ingredients I wanted to see:
there was a wide
temperature spread predicted, 40's at night to high 90's during the day, so
it would be unstable. It was dry, so cloudbase would be high. Dust devils
abounded early on launch. But then high cirroform clouds started pushing in
from the southwest, and no cu's were developing near launch. What the heck,
we're here: Ken Cavanaugh launched first, followed by Eiji Yakoda, I was
third clocking in at 1:25, Dave Kriner fourth, all in the air within 15
minutes. Climb out was tedious, the King Mt we know and love; I pulled out
of the squirrely lift at 11,300' and flew over to Rams Horn canyon, Ken and
Eiji along with me, Dave lingering back. Still no clouds nearby, a few well
to our north, high and ragged. Hmmm.
We climbed some in the canyon, to 12,000', but I wanted to see if it was more
unstable to the north, so I pushed on down the ridge. The numbers aloft had
indicated the Ruby Route; Ken had said on the way up that on this route, he
didn't like to go over the back past the middle of Sunset Ridge, and there is
much merit to this, as it is the highest point of the ridge, there is a
secondary ridge that extends to the east off the backside to mute the rotor,
and it is the nearest point to the Lemhis.
Well, none of this mattered anymore; I was getting drilled out in front of
Sunset. Chairman Mao said that "the longest journey begins with the first
step", but my journey was ending before it started! While Ken and Eiji were
fighting it out and slowly climbing still at Rams Horn Canyon, I was heading
out over the foothills of Sunset for a landing. Down to 8600' I zero sank
for awhile; it eventually built and got me back in the saddle up to 11,500'.
Persistently I pushed north, looking again at those ragged cu clouds on the
range across from Mackay.
But it got worse. As I slowly dribbled north in the weak conditions against
a now quartering headwind, Eiji then Ken started to go over the back from the
canyon at 14,300'. But not me; I was plowing lower and lower. Down to
9,600' at Pass Creek I radioed that I'll try to get up and over at the pass,
but was not having much luck. The venturi at the Pass was full on, I rocked
and rolled through red rocks and the foothills before Invisible Mt., and finally
got around the corner and started a light climbout. I skated past Invisible
now at 10,500', and on the next peak to the north, WOW ITS HERE!! Holy
Smokes right where the ragged clouds just started to begin, the lift was
thermonuclear. I eased my Laminar deeper and deeper into the violent column
until I was full on at 1350 fpm on the averager, 60 degree bank, gripping and
ripping, drifting back with the climb, ah yes I recognize this!! I
staircased it; I was too scared to go straight over the back, this being the
widest possible and most formidable point of the range for a crossing, so out
in front again at 13,500', thermalled back, out in front again at 16,000',
and calmly told myself that this was it, the one, you were over the back with
its drift, so get into that zone of tracking, ignore the fact that you forgot
your bar mitts and can't feel your gloved fingers, you need altitude and
drift. Ever so careful not to exceed 17,999', I radioed to the surprised
Driver Toni in Howe that I was over the back north of Invisible. Yahoo!!! I
had finally taken the first step in the long journey.
I drew a bead on Bell. It looks like the Grand Teton from the distance and
ever moreso up close. I had a tailwind component of about 18 mph, picked up
a little zero in the center of the valley, and moved to Bell as if on laser
track with a ground speed of 62 mph. With no cu's for the crossing, I was
intent to get where there might be better lift; there was a cu on Bell and to
its north, so I had reasonable hopes, though it takes a long time to fly the
25 miles to Bell, even at 62 mph. I aimed for the north shoulder of Bell's
canyon, figuring the dying cu would have ripped from the obvious rock scree
there, and maybe I could get on that train. But I was too late, I only got
the trash of its departure, gaining 1200' up to 11,300' in the swirls and
eddies. Radio reports from the guys weren't good: Ken and Dave had landed
over the back of King, and Eiji was going to land imminently. I was acutely
aware that the best of flights can be stopped so fast; that the ingredients
to a long flight include getting through all the bottlenecks, and I was at
one: lift would be no good out in the valley, so I stayed deep against Bell
and flew to its south shoulder to pick up apparent windward southerlies that
were indicated as valley flow. That worked, a thermal came up the ridge, I
eased my way back with it across the impressive face of Bell, and off the
north side with the drift. The next peak to the north and deeper on the
range was producing; I eased over to it in the drift, and pulled up to
15,500'. The lift was broken, but I was glad for no more altitude, my hands
were still numb from that first climb out, 15 and change would be fine. I
radioed my position and drew a bead on the Bitterroots.
I was chasing the cu's. What few were there were out in front of me still,
only an infrequent lost cu nearby. My target on the Bitterroots was the
large brown peak with no trees on it, the highest point along my route of
travel. Down to 12,000', I was struggling to find something on the front
side of this peak; but to its north and fairly deep into it, I found steady
lift and with the drift made the decision to go over the Divide at 13,000'.
Still climbing at 16,600' on the backside, I radioed my position as over the
Bitterroots, and the fuzz on the return was the last I heard from my team
mates for the next eight hours. I was completely on my own; it was 4 pm.
East of the Divide was where all the cu's were gathered, skittering over the
range and hiding in Montana, those sly dogs. But even though I had 80% cloud
cover, little was working. I smiled when I could make out Ellis mountain to
the north on the Tendoys; I recalled a 116 miler I had from there in my first
Grant Fly In, 1989. I knew the way from there! So in the weak conditions, I
worked my way north toward the Tendoys and Ellis, flghting to hold altitude.
But down to 13,500' 2 miles south of Ellis Peak, I had to stay with weak lift
and get back to something that would enable a crossing of the Tendoys. I
drifted east of Ellis over the range at 14,500', and lined myself up with the
east side of Clarks Canyon reservoir. But little was working with the
overcast; I was really trying to stay in the air, and was just barely.
Just south and east of the reservoir, I picked up a light thermal at 12,500',
and told myself to get back into that zone of drift, this was the only game
in town, and I needed the drift and altitude for the next crossing of
no-mans' land on the way to the Ruby's. I spent a lot of time in this light
lift, and at 15,600' it occurred to me that there was no discernable core,
that the area was all gentle lift. I was high enough to get to the Ruby's,
and while still trying to get my right hand warm, I drew a bead on the front
of that range. The sky was now 90+% overcast, but there was a street in the
cast that pointed exactly where I was going. This never happens!! From
15,600', I never made another turn for 34 miles!! My altitude changed from
15,600' to 17,300', and back down to the low 16's by the time the end of the
range came up. What a fantastic ride, groundspeed a steady 60-62 with the
18mph tailwind, but I was soo sooooo cold, my right hand now a frozen claw
that I had to push into the front of my harness for bits of time, my whole
body shuddering with hypothermia. Oh the joy and the pain!!
The deeper I got onto the Ruby's, verga surrounded me more and more. Aside
from the cold, I didn't want to get any higher because of the
overdevelopment. At the end of the range, there was a wall of verga; this
completed a horseshoe around me, and even though at 16,000', I started to
think the flight was over. Indeed I plunged into the verga on course line
and fell 5,000' in the blinding snowstorm. Out the other side, still 100%
overcast, I was looking for a place to land: the massive Tobacco Root
Mountains were to my north, Sheridan at their base 5 miles to my west, Twin
Bridges to its west a few miles further. Twin Bridges was my goal call, and
it would be an easy glide in the quartering headwind to get to the airport, a
nice 132 mile declared goal. I looked on my course line to the northeast,
and there was no way to get over that no man's land on the east slope of the
Tobacco Roots with my altitude. I looked to the east, and there was Virginia
City beckoning with some nice fields. Then I remembered something Rich
Pfeiffer told me a long time ago in his more lucid days: that you make the
decision to land, most often subconsciously, long before you actually land.
That you essentially predispose your decision, and your actions lead to
landing; whereas if you make the decision to stay up, you would make
different decisions long before in the flight. I needed different decisions,
landing was not one of them: so on the east side of the Tobacco Roots, in the
100% overcast, I went into search mode for any lightest area of lift that I
could trickle with and drift over the range and over the no man's land and to
a green field I could see far to my northeast. I found the lift, and amongst
the gentle swirling snow verga falling on the Roots, circling for the next
half hour, I pulled back up to 15,500', and was back in the saddle again.
The hard parts of the flight were done, I was essentially over flat
land/rolling hills; but unfortunately it was late and the day was also pretty
well done. Hwy 287 north of Norris was a welcome sight, I was down to
10,000' and it looked to be final glide. Land along the highway?? North now
of the highway, out of curiosity, I punched up the "Go To" on my GPS, hit
King Mt, and it read 165 miles!! Yahoo, I had it! My mind switched to the
next goal, my longest flight, which was 177 miles, just done in Sandia two
weeks earlier. Heck with landing. I went into full search mode again, and
found a little weak area in partial sun that was going up at 100 fpm. I
centered in this and treated it like my last possible thermal, getting to
13,200' before it finally petered out. It had nice drift, and placed me
within easy glide of Amsterdam/Churchhill.
There was the Interstate, there was Bozeman, wow its all so near now. But
cloud cover was back to 90-100%, and I was on final final glide, I knew it
from 11,000'. I overflew Belgrade, thinking hard now about witnesses as well
as realistic LZ's, down to 9,800'. But there was Felix Canyon in front of
me, a hang gliding site on the Bridgers I had flown with Will Lanier and some
of the other Bozeman pilots years ago. There was significant verga at the
north end of the canyon, and also to my east on the Bridgers. The party was
over, my task was to stretch the glide to the canyon road, and land where
there were witnesses and where my crew could find me. At the end of the
canyon, 17 miles north of Belgrade, with rain two miles in front of me, I
circled the final 2000' down to a sunburnt barley field, and landed prettily
back to the south in zero ground wind. It was 7:20, 5 hrs 55 minutes from
launch, 187 miles reading happily on the GPS.
Two ranchhands working the field nearby saw my approach and landing, and
offered all assistance. They took me to their ranch house two miles away to
make the call to Ken's home phone, I called in my position, then they fed me
a huge dinner and drove me back to my gear to break down before dark. We
hauled the glider and gear back to the ranchhouse to wait for our gang. Ken
had gotten my message that I was over the back of the Bitterroots, so they
all knew I was east of the Divide, but didn't know where. They stopped in
Lima, MT, thinking that I could be up one of the many canyons there. So they
were a long way out by the time I called, and arrived at midnight jazzed but
sleepy at the ranch. We drove back all night, and got back home by 0800 the
next day. What an epic retrieve, equal to the epic flight, and my deepest
thanks to all who put in that long night.