By Andy Long
A similar forecast was called for the next day so with a bit of input from other pilots in our group we headed for Gunter on the Whites. I was feeling pretty confident, not only from the fact that my reading of the conditions yesterday had given me the best flight the day but from realizing that the Owens really wasn't much bigger air than I had experienced in Montana and Idaho. However, I was in for a few more painful lessons on how to fly this place in the days to come.
It was looking really good at Gunter as we set up. There were clouds forming in the Sierra as well as over the back of the Whites. We were set up in time but just as the cycles began to come in it started come in more from the south and picked up. The early launching pilots were showing a building southerly wind in between the cycles and rowdier by the minute conditions.
Even though I was one of the first in our group to get my glider off the truck I was already behind some of the other guys as I seemed to be slower in getting my gear ready, particularly all the stuff on my harness. A couple of our guys launched ahead of me but found elusive, rapidly drifting lift plus lots of sink and a strong quartering headwind to the LZ. As a stood in line trying to figure out a strategy of getting up and away I had no idea that my observations of the other pilots were slowly lulling me into a mindset that would soon lead to my downfall.
Even with this wind I noticed that there were still 3-4 minute cycles out there that were showing on the struggling group out front. I decided that I would wait for a change and then go. After about 5 minutes of waiting the lowest of the gang out front started to get a bit of up air instead of strictly wind, even though it was hardly workable at their altitude. The change in texture moved across but also up the slope below launch until it finally reached the highest pilots in the group who were still even or below launch. As three of these guys began to circle I timed my launch in the hopes that there would be some lift filled in on my section of the hill as well and was rewarded with the first parts of this cycle right as I was zipping up.
I put the glider up on a tip and aggressively worked it up and behind launch to about 800 over just a couple of minutes after I had left the ground. I then hung on over the knob behind launch and boated, trying to conserve my altitude in the wind, waiting for a good one. However, I had already committed the biggest blunder of the flight by not immediately leaving for the next spine to the north, again mistakenly believing that I had to get a bit higher to begin going XC. The Owens fools you in this regard because in a moment of observation you see that * of the range is still above you and surmise that you need more altitude to leave. Plus, you brainlock even more with the wind because you observe that everyone, yourself included, is soon sinking out and struggling to make the ÒdesignatedÓ LZ into a strong quartering headwind. And of course you deduce that you must also hold your ground and follow suit in order to land safely.
The rowdy conditions, the building winds, the disbelief that almost everyone was sinking out on a day that looked so good, all this was diverting my focus from being able to simply notice that to the northwest, with a quartering tailwind, was miles of perfectly landable terrain The way to break away, even just to stay up, was downwind but it hadn't occurred to me at the point where I could have most taken advantage of it. For the next 10 minutes I plunged and rocketed in the trash, working scraps and waiting for something decent. 5 or 6 others were in various stages of sinking out and I was determined not to join them. Then Larry Smith launched, found something several hundred feet below launch and rode it up to where I had been earlier. I was watching him but turned away to focus on what I was doing. Unknown to me he immediately had begun to call to me on the radio, saying, "Let's go! Let's go!" I didn't hear him because my PTT and earpiece had somehow become unseated from my radio. After no response from me and with my back turned, Larry peeled off to the north and headed for the next ridge.
A minute later and now sinking out fast I looked for Larry again and he was gone. Then I saw him one ridge to the north, just a little higher than I was but in better terrain and circling. As low as I was I looked at the lower sections of the ridge he was on and immediately understood the strategy needed to get away, and in my case, survive. Still sinking fast I immediately turned downwind and slowed a bit, finally freeing myself of the wind and this self induced brain lock. I picked a conservative point I thought I'd be sure to reach on the next ridge but soon saw that I would easily make it with the 100 to 1 glide I was getting with the tailwind. Heading over there I glanced at Larry who was now a bit higher but proceeding to yet the next ridge north, not fighting the wind, working the bits of lift and slowly progressing up range and into the range. I was already beginning to fume because I had been in the exact same spot above and behind launch that Larry had been when he left Gunter. I arrived on the next spine north in no time but after turning back to the south found nothing but a smooth headwind. I tried to ridge soar it in the hopes of hanging on there until something came through but kept on sinking. As I was dropping off the last knob before the alluvial fan and the valley I spotted another glider a few hundred yards away over the flats low. But he was circling and climbing slowly.
My last chance. I streaked over to him and came in 50 feet under him. The lift was light but workable. In a couple of 360s I had a good hold on it and using the Sensor's excellent sink rate was soon climbing through the other pilot. There was no worry of landing now because I was in the valley so I figured that my chances were good of climbing out and getting away if the lift would just hold. But after about 500 feet the lift began to break up. Sensing this, the other pilot made a last ditch attempt to find something by flying on over to the fans but sunk out and landed about halfway back to the highway. I stayed with the zero sink, hoping for a miracle but it wasn't to be. With rapidly developing cloudstreets forming all over, I dribbled my way to a few miles past Chalfont and landed in a 20 – 25 mph southerly surface wind, soaked in sweat and absolutely hopping mad. Another encounter with the fine, powdery space dust followed. The only consolation was that there was a barbed wire fence to hang everything on.
I had learned yet another couple of lessons, the hard way. 1) It's never too early to think about leaving, especially in wind, even when the entire route is above you, 2) your radio cannot help you if it isn't plugged in and 3) avoid designated LZ mind suck at all costs! Yet, like a fine wine, the lessons this day got better with age because after packing up I had to chase Larry all the way to the end of the Whites where he (thankfully) sunk out after 40 miles. But after I thought I had been given enough abuse for my blunder, I came to find out that evening that two Southern California pilots who had launched with us had gotten up, made it off the Whites and had flown 120 and 140 miles respectively!! I thought I was going to be sick after hearing that one.